Awkward Silences
by Harmonious Dischord
Summary: Jessica falls through her own rabbit hole and ends up in Paris, 1890. Erik finds her half dead on his lakeshore, and takes her home, where they both must learn to accept each other, despite their two hundred year cultural difference.
1. Chapter 1

The majority of our world's heroines have had it easy. The problem arises, the girl sits quietly, singing or reading a book or spinning straw into gold (or some other such nonsense) as she waits contented with the fact that her prince will save her and she'll live happily ever after. Even outside of fairy tales, heroines are either incredibly dense or under massive amounts of stress and wait until the very last second before realizing that they've actually had it easy so far. The ending scene? The go skipping off into the sunset, and probably are on their way to a flight down to the Bahamas.

Jessica Arden wasn't about to get it that easy.

…

Jessica Arden, born April 16, 1993; Jessica Arden, reported missing sixteen years later. Her family assumed that she drowned in the lake they were visiting, but the police weren't so sure. It was if she had vanished off the face of the Earth: no footprints, no fingerprints, no blood… no nothing. They had searched the lake for days, combing through every sandbar, but the answer was still the same, and her body was never found. The family mourned for years, going in and out of psychotherapy and family counseling, but nothing helped. Jessica's younger sister, Emily, turned to drugs. Her father became an alcoholic. Her mother divorced her husband, took custody of Emily, and soon sent her daughter off to rehab in Nevada.

It had been only eight years since Jessica had died. There had only been one problem with this tragedy:

Jessica Arden wasn't dead.

…

Jessica didn't think as her mind floating somewhere between conscious and subconscious. Her head ached, and her entire body felt heavy. With her eyelids closed, she could faintly hear a voice—the most beautiful voice she'd ever heard—from far away. The voice was saying… something. It was beautiful, whatever it was, and Jessica found herself being lulled into a sense of security as blackness washed over her.

WHUMP! Something heavy bounced on her stomach, making her gag; water spilled out of her mouth like a torrent as her eyes flew open. She turned on her side, retching until finally all the water was out of her and the air around her echoed with her frenzied breathing. A warm hand pressed itself onto her forehead and Jessica got a whiff of leather. The fingers of the mysterious had pulled the wet strands of her hair of her forehead as another hand—this time with an arm attached!—snaked around her belly. Jessica could only breathe all the harder as the arm supported her shaking body.

"Oh my God," Jessica gasped, a little shriek of hysteria escaping her throat. _'I might have died just now…!' _Unable to control herself, she started to sob from her brush with Death. _'I-could-have-died-I-could-have-died-I-could-have-died!' _ Her breath came out in little squeaks as the arm pulled her backwards and pressed her tightly against the chest of a kneeling figure. A man, as far as Jessica could tell, from his flat chest and incredibly broad shoulders. One of the man's gloved hands started stroking her sopping hair, and she heard him trying to shush her as he rocked back and forth. The man started speaking to her quietly between hushes, no doubt in an attempt to calm her down; however, whether due to the considerable amount of water Jessica swallowed or the fact that her mind seemed to be slipping in and out of reality, she couldn't understand a word he said to her. A new bout of sobbing arose:

'_I-don't-understand- I-don't-understand- I-don't-understand- I-don't-understand!' _ Her eyes were squinting shut and her nose was running. Desperately, she sniffed, wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve, swallowing against her sandpaper throat. It was useless.

"Oh, G-god," she managed to say before another little shriek escaped her throat. Here she was, in the dark, _with a man she didn't know_, and her parents nowhere around. Where was she? Why was it so dark? Obviously, she was still at the lake; could she be on the other side? She should have known better to go swimming so late at night, but it was just twilight, after all. And it wasn't as if she hadn't gone to that lake, year after year, and swam around it alone. She used to compete with her father to see who could swim across and back the fastest. How could she have nearly drowned? How could she be here, _with a stranger_, and—and—and—! Her arms moved to instinctively cover her chest.

Jessica swallowed again, forcing herself to take deep breaths of air. The man, whoever he was, had not hurt her yet. He was still stroking her hair and murmuring incomprehensible syllables against the crown of her head.

Jessica pushed the stranger's hands away, attempting to turn around to face him. The stranger, however, had different ideas, and tightened his embrace. Jessica started seeing images from the news about girls who disappeared from their family and were never heard from again. She struggled harder. The man hissed out a few syllables. _'What on earth?'_ thought Jessica. She couldn't make sense of what he had said.

"E-excuse me?" she asked quietly, holding her breath in fear of the answer. She immediately felt the man tense against her, then relax suddenly.

"You speak English?" he asked quietly. Jessica involuntarily gasped at the sound of his voice; it sounded like those opera singers on her mom's old CD's. She could feel the man chuckling at her reaction, his body shaking up and down against her back.

"Uhhh…" Jessica said brilliantly, her head trying to turn around to look at the man. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, yes, I do speak English. Who…? That is, where…? Um…" Jessica couldn't form a coherent sentence. The stranger said something in a glut of syllables. When Jessica didn't respond, he said something else in another glut of syllables.

"Wait…" Jessica started. "Was that Spanish?" She had had a few years of Spanish classes, but it wouldn't be enough to get by if this man didn't speak more than a few words of English.

"Latin, actually," he said quietly. "Miss, can you stand by yourself?"

What a stupid question! She had been trying to stand by herself and get at least five feet away from whoever he was for the last five minutes! Eagerly, she pushed herself up, throwing his arms off her. She turned around as if to dare him to challenge her ability to stand, when suddenly all the blood rushed to her head. Her knees wobbled beneath her, and she toppled head-first to the ground. If it weren't for the gentleman there, she would have gashed her knees on the rocks.

"Let's see," the man said as he lifted Jessica into his arms, as if she weighted no more than a feather. "First, you can't understand my native tongue, and then you can't stand by yourself."

"It was just the blood going to my head," Jessica gurgled, still feeling the effects of the head-rush.

"You were nearly dead when I found you," the man continued, "and your clothes are all wet. I shall take you back to my house and give you proper replacement clothes there."

"NO!" Jessica screamed, thrashing against the stranger. To his house?! Not bloody likely! That's what happened to girls her age all the time! They're picked up by strangers, and ever seen or heard from until they find the girl's body floating face down in a river or chucked over the edge of a highway!

The stranger was confused. He had just offered this girl a warm place to stay, and a chance to get out of these wet clothes. Perhaps, he reasoned, she thought him to be one of those dangerous sorts of chaps. Well, no matter. He would soon put her straight.

"You shall be perfectly safe with Erik," he said calmly, and even ventured a smile, though he knew that the girl would barely be able to see it in this darkness, and half of what she saw would be covered up by a mask.

Jessica stopped thrashing long enough to ask, "Erik?"

"Yes. I am Erik!" The man—Erik—chuckled to himself. Jessica had just decided that not only was this man a predator, but he was also insane. She started to fight off Erik again.

Erik rolled his eyes. What a child. Couldn't she see that he meant her no harm? He got a steadier hold on her, and started walking in the direction of his home. The girl's arms were pinned at her sides, and all she could do was yell and futilely kick against Erik's frame, and Erik was used to people screaming at him.

Out of a scientific curiosity, Erik started singing under his breath. Most people were intoxicated by the mere sound of him speaking, yet this girl seemed to not notice his voice. Erik soon found, however, that the girl, though she obviously didn't want to be, was enchanted by his voice when he sang.

Jessica found herself being lulled against her will into a sort of daydream state of mind. She stopped struggling against Erik and started listening—really listening—to his music. She had friends who sang—after all, who didn't?—but none of her friends could sing like this. This… this was beyond words.

"My name's Jessica," she told him sleepily, resting her head against his heart, its own beats in time with the music. "I don't think it's fair that I know your name, but you don't know mine."

Erik nodded, stopping his song very briefly to murmur, "Goodnight, Jessica." The girl was asleep seconds later.


	2. Chapter 2

Jessica woke up, and rolled over. She could feel her jeans on her, and her t-shirt too. It felt as if she had slept with them on damp. _'I really should leave my clothes in the dryer longer…'_ she thought sleepily. _'Or at least put on some pajama's like mom always says I should…' _Mom. Dad. Emily. The lake. Erik.

Oh, God.

Jessica sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes springing open. One glance told her that what had happened hadn't been a dream. She was lying in a strange bed in some sort of cavern. The blankets were made of some sort of soft, costly feeling material, and a black lace curtain hung over her head. On the walls, or what she could see of the walls, hung candelabras with all the candles in them lit.

All of it was lost on Jessica, for her only thought was of her home. Her mom, her dad, and her sister… what were they doing now? Would they realize that she was gone? Of course they would… where was she? Was she still on the lakefront? Maybe she could escape from whoever he was—this Erik—and swim across the lake to her family.

Jessica felt over her body quickly with her hands. No bruises. Her clothes were still on. So this Erik guy was telling the truth; he didn't hurt her.

"_You shall be perfectly safe with Erik."_

His words still rang in her ears as her mind flashed with what happened between them before she fell asleep. _'Why did I tell him my name?' _she asked herself in dismay. _'Why didn't I have enough sense to shut up, or at least, make up a fake name. His stupid, stupid, beautiful voice!' _

"Good morning, Miss Jessica," came a voice. _'Speak of the devil…' _she thought, looking up and seeing a shadowy outline of Erik through the lace curtain.

"Can I go home now?" she asked, none too politely, and then winced. While she didn't trust this man an inch, he didn't hurt her last night. Perhaps he was just a nice man who wanted, from the goodness in his heart, to take care of the girl who nearly drowned.

Yeah right.

"Actually, I'd rather you did leave," Erik said calmly. "You're sleeping in my bed."

"What?!" Jessica screeched, flinging the covers off of her as terrible images flashed through her mind. She frantically tried to crawl out of the bed and succeeded in only tangling herself in the lacy veil that separated the two of them.

"Careful!" Erik called out sharply. "You'll tear it!" Muttering something dark under his breath, he grabbed Jessica's arm and pulled her forward, lifting and twisting the lace as he went. He called her something in another language as Jessica started to stand.

"Wait... what language is tha—" Jessica started, but the words became caught in her throat when she looked at Erik for the first time. He was handsome and tall… and he wore a mask. Not hardly knowing what she was doing, Jessica reached up to touch the white mask, but Erik snatched her hand away.

"Don't be a fool," he warned. His eyes were black and Jessica felt massive waves of heat radiating from them. Erik sighed, turning away but not letting go of Jessica's hand, something she started to feel slightly threatened by.

"I was speaking French." He said after a time, then looked at her quizzically. "You are American, yes?" Jessica nodded dumbly. "I thought so," he continued. "I could trace your accent that far. What are you doing in Paris without knowing a word of French?"

"P-Paris?" Jessica asked, confusion spreading across her face. "We're not in Paris. We're up North… just off of this little lake near some… OH MYGOD! You kidnapped me! You--! You--! You--!" Jessica pulled her hand out of Erik's grasp and looked at him with wide eyes and trembling lips. "No… you're lying! You're one of those sick men, aren't you! You're going to—to—to—OH MY GOD!" Her hands covered her chest as she backed away from him.

Erik stood, staring at her like a bemused child. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Jessica couldn't answer; her mouth was too busy opening and closing in mute horror and fear. Would she ever see her family again? Or would she die by Erik's hands?

Erik finally caught on. "Oh my… you think I would do you? You're… I'm not…" Erik stepped forward and Jessica stepped back, her arms closing tighter around her. Erik let out an exasperated groan.

"I'm not going to do anything to you!" he exclaimed. "I promise! You've nothing to fear from me!"

Jessica finally found her voice. "It's perverts like you I _have_ to fear!" Erik winced, and she could tell that she had hurt him more than she could know. Still, she hardened her heart to pity; she couldn't pity this man if he were trying to harm her.

"I promise," Erik rasped out, "I _swear_ on my very Don Juan, that I will not harm you." The pity broke through Jessica's heart and she slowly, hesitantly, lowered her arms until they were by her side. They stood looking at each other for a few moments, until Jessica broke the silence.

"Tell me the truth," she said quietly, never taking her eyes off of him. "Where _are_ we? I know where I _was_, but where am I now? Am I up north, or am I in… Paris?" Her voice crinkled around the last word, as if she didn't believe it.

"You're in Paris, France," Erik said quietly. "I don't know how you got into my lake; all I know is that last night, I found you face down in the bank. I pumped the water out of your stomach, and the rest," Erik made a gesture with his hand. "…the rest is history. Now, you tell me how arrived here, and what you were doing in my lake."

Jessica took a deep breath. "I was vacationing with my family up North, by this little lake. We go every year, and we just swim and relax outside for a week. Anyway, I decided to go swimming in the lake. It's not really big you know; I've swum across it before lots of times. So anyways, I'm swimming in the lake, and all of the sudden, this massive storm comes out of nowhere. So I'm freaking out, like, oh-my-god-am-I-going-to-be-hit-by-lighting freaking out, and the next think I know, I'm spewing up water and you're speaking to me in… French?" Erik nodded that she was correct. "And that's how I got here. You explain it to me."

Erik shook his head. "I can't explain it." He eyed Jessica suspiciously, then smirked. "Miss… would you care to explain to me what man's closet you raided before you went swimming?" Jessica looked down at her own clothes.

"Huh?" she asked stupidly. _'Jeans and a t-shirt? Okay, so now I'm dressed like a guy?'_

"Speak for yourself," she retorted. "At least I don't look like I'm going to a costume party. Seriously, are you going for the whole 1800's look, or what?" Now it was Erik's turn to look confused.

"A 1800's look? But it is… it's 1890. There is a specific _look_ I'm _going _for?"

Jessica stumbled backwards, hit by the information. If Erik wasn't lying to her, and she had to assume that he wasn't, that would mean that she traveled back in time… nearly one hundred and twenty years.

"But—but that's impossible," she whispered. "You're lying to me. It's not 1890. You can't go back in time… You really are a sick old man!" Erik started rubbing his temples.

"Did I give you any good reason for why I should lie to you?" he asked, obviously annoyed by Jessica's reactions. "I'm not a pervert, I'm not a sick old man—I don't even classify as being old, being twenty two—and you just naturally assume that I am! I will not hurt you, and I am not lying to you. Must you keep slinging these accusations at me? I can assure you, they are most unfounded."

"Yeah, well, where I come from, it's not 1890." Erik gave the girl a look; obviously the shock had gotten to her.

"Of course, miss," he said quietly, walking forward and gently putting a hand on her shoulder. Jessica flinched at the contact.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you." Her words came out cold an accusatory. "I'm not insane. I swear to God, that this isn't my world. This is my past, my history. I'm from a hundred years in the future!" She winced, realizing how impossible it all sounded. "You know what? Just forget it. I won't be able to prove anything. It's not like I know French history anyways, or like I remembered my iPod with me or something." Erik looked confused, but Jessica waved it off. "Just don't bother. I just need to get home."

"I don't know how we could do that," Erik said quietly. "If you're from the future as you say you are…" He tried very hard to keep his voice steady; what was one supposed to do when dealing with a mad-woman?

Jessica sighed. "Maybe we could try drowning me again. That might work." Erik got a wicked gleam in his eyes when she said that. _'Oh my God...' _she thought. _'What have I done…?_


	3. Chapter 3

Jessica rose from the water gasping, her eyes bugging out of her head. Erik stood on the other side of the lake, shaking with silent mirth. It had been pleasant throwing the girl into the lake; he didn't believe that she was truly "from the future", but it had been entertaining to watch her flail helplessly as gravity pulled her downward from the air to the inky water.

"Bas… tard!" Jessica managed to gasp just before she leveled herself against the water and swam to the edge. Though she was an excellent swimmer, she found herself going far too slowly for her taste. _'Stupid clothes,'_ she thought as her shirt clung to her body. _'Stupid, stupid, Erik. Stupid water. Stupid slow swimming.' _

Stupid Erik.

"You're an idiot!" Jessica yelled at him when she finally got to shore, between her pants and gasps for air. "You weren't… supposed to actually… _throw_ me!"

"Forgive me," Erik said placidly, "but I believe that when one is trying to drown oneself, the object is to… not know when the water will take over." He smiled wickedly, the flickering light off of some nearby torches reflecting sinisterly off his half a mask.

"Idiot," Jessica hissed, rolling her eyes. "I didn't actually mean for you to throw me. I didn't actually want to drown. It was just a suggestion!" She was gathering steam now. "But no! You have to go—as high and mighty as you please—and drag me—drag me!—to your stupid lake and throw me in! Idiot!" She flopped on the rocky edge and lie on her back, her breath starting to catch up with her again. "God, I just want to go home."

Home. Would she even get home now? She had somehow ended up back in time—if she was really going to believe Erik about that whole "this-is-1890" thing. What about her family? What about her friends? What about her life? Would she ever see anyone again? Would she ever go home again?

"I just want to go home," Jessica muttered, her voice threatening to break as tears welled up in her eyes. She had just lost… everything. Everything she had ever known. She knew nothing here, she had no one to care for her here, and if she died, no one here would care about her. No one. A tear spilled down the side of Jessica's face as she hoisted herself to a sitting position and turned away from Erik. No way in hell was he going to see her cry now.

"Are you… crying?" Erik asked, utterly confused. He hadn't meant to make the girl cry; he hadn't even shown her his face. "I'm sorry for throwing you in the lake, but—"

"I'm not crying!" Jessica yelled at him as she quickly wiped her eyes. "I just… I'm not crying." She sniffed again, blinking furiously. "I—I don't think I'll be getting back that way." She motioned towards the water. "I don't think it works that way."

Erik saw the girl crying, and something in him told him sharply to help. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He dangled it teasingly in front of her face.

"I'm not crying!" she yelled, her words reverberating off of the cavern walls. She took the handkerchief anyways and hid her face in it. Erik crouched down on his haunches and stared at her. It was his first time being with a woman, outside of Madame Giry, that was, who didn't run away from him—Of course! Madame Giry! She was the answer!

Erik grabbed Jessica's arm and pulled her up as he stood. He gave her a quick look over, and then decided that she would need some new clothes, ones that were preferably dry. And definitely a place to stay; he wanted his bed back. Swiftly, he dragged Jessica farther and farther away from the house.

"What the—?" Jessica asked, but Erik was already too far lost in his head. "Where are you taking me?" She asked, afraid that he had finally turned into the pervert she had always believed him to be. She struggled against him, but his grip turned vise-like. She screamed; Erik turned around, finally shaken from his reverie, looking at her like she was an idiot. With cheeks hot from embarrassment, she quickly shut her mouth and looked at the ground.

"You need clothes," he said finally, then started walking again. "I'll not have you looking like a transvestite." Jessica tried to interject but Erik cut her off. "Don't argue with me; you look like a… well, you're too young to know what you look like. You'll also need somewhere to sleep, and something to keep you occupied. I'll not be playing nursemaid. Erik has played many roles in life, but nursemaid is not one he would ever—not ever, mind you—play. You need to be presentable, and you need to learn French. And how to play, and how to sing, and—"

Jessica finally interrupted his torrent of words. "And you know of some _magical _ place that will grant me all these abilities instantly?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but Erik didn't catch it.

"Don't be foolish," he said crisply. "There's no such place. You'll have to learn it for yourself, and you will, no doubt about that. However, I do know a _person_ who will see to it that several of those steps are taken. Now, about—"

"And who said you could make these decisions for me?" Jessica cried out. "Who said you could just… lay out my life for me? I can forge my own path, thank you very much!" Erik turned back to look at her, his eyes seeming to glow black fire.

"And do you really think you could achieve anything without me? You know no French, you look like a man… or, well, someone much worse. You don't know where you are, and you're convinced that you're from the future. How far do you believe you can get without me? Hmmm? Answer quickly, or I shall leave you here and go back to my home without you."

Jessica felt his accusations shackle her in; like it or not, she was bound to this man, at least, for awhile. "Fine," she submitted. "Fine. You win."


	4. Chapter 4

Madame Giry stood slowly, straightening her back with several loud cracks. She was getting older—her hair was shot with gray, and she leaned on her cane whenever she walked—but no one could say that the ballet mistress lost any of her spirit. She still danced, though she never went up on pointe anymore, and her eyes still had that same cold steel in them that they had always had. Many believed Antoinette Giry to be immortal, but the woman knew full well that she was on the downward slope of life. She had Meg far too late in her life; that in itself nearly destroyed her body, but she refused to be beaten by something as trivial as childbirth. As soon as the doctors had taken her baby—to "clean her", they claimed—she stood up, ignoring the lingering pain from labor, and did her entire barre routine.

No human alive dared to say that Madame Giry was anything but incredible, least of all Erik.

"This is taking forever!" Jessica exclaimed, her wet clothes chafing her in the worst places as Erik led her through cavern tunnel after cavern tunnel. He didn't dare use the main halls to Giry, though they would be faster; if his mask didn't make a scene, Jessica certainly would.

"Would you just stay silent!" Erik's voice grew hard and cold. If there was a God, would he ever create such an annoying creature? "You're worse than Carlotta!" Jessica blinked several times; what the hell was a Carlotta? Was that a French derogatory term or something? Before Jessica could ask, Erik stopped dead in his tracks; the girl, not paying attention to him, walked straight into his back.

"Stupid girl," Erik muttered in French. He nudged open a side panel of a wall and looked out. The hallway was deserted. He turned back and made a motion for Jessica to stay silent, then took her arm, and stepped out of his secret passageway. The lights hurt his eyes, and for a very brief moment, he passed his hands over his eyelids. Jessica was affected in the very same way, though she just squinted. Slowly though, her eyes became adjusted to the bright light, and she could see for herself exactly where she was.

She wasn't up North anymore, Auntie Em.

The hallway seemed to stretch out forever on either side of her; all the walls were evenly spaced with doors, and the portions of the walls not leading to other rooms were covered in paintings, recreations of the masters. Jessica saw several Da Vinci's and other beautiful paintings, though she couldn't tell who the artists were; art was never her strong point. In the distance, far off to her right, she could hear faint voices laughing and yelling.

"I'm… I'm really in France, aren't I?" Jessica asked quietly as Erik knocked twice on one of the hundreds of doors. He looked at her and nodded, very slowly. The gravity of her situation finally hit her, and her face started to pale rapidly. _'Don't cry,'_ she begged herself. _'Oh dear God, don't let me cry!'_

It was at that moment that Madame Giry opened the door. Seeing Erik, her eyes widened and she glanced quickly around the hallway to make sure they were alone. Furtively, she motioned for him to enter her room, not noticing Jessica at all. Erik stepped over the threshold, and then motioned for Jessica to follow him.

"Who is this?" Madame Giry asked when she saw the girl, her eyes flashing accusatorily at Erik. "Erik, I swear to the Lord, that if you've hurt her—!"

"This, Antoinette, is Jessica." Jessica perked her head up when she hear her name spoken, though she hadn't understood a word of what was being said up until that point. _'Stupid French language.'_

Erik continued. "I found her on my lake. She seems to have… suffered a head wound or a shock, for she believes herself to be… well, from the future." Giry stiffened when Erik said that, and warily stole a glance at the girl.

"And what do you want me to do about it?" she asked, holding her head up high. "You know far more about medicine and science than I do. What can I do about her suffering from this… shock?"

Erik motioned at Jessica's clothing. "She needs clothes, Antoinette. I'll not have her walking around like… like she is now. She needs to at least look like a woman." Erik didn't mention that the real reason he was having Madame Giry help him was so he could get rid of the girl. He would stand by his decision to not play the nursemaid, and the easiest way to do that would be to get rid of the girl in question. Besides, Erik had perfect faith in Giry; she raised _him_, or at least, attempted to, and Erik was sure that Jessica would not be nearly as difficult as he was.

"I just need you to help her get started," Erik said. "Just get her some clothes. I'll try to talk to her and see if I can jog her memory. If my psychology training serves me correctly, I can hypothesize that she had undergone a serious trauma and is blocking the pain by believing that she's from the future. I'm sure that if we can just… get her to face reality, everything shall be alright."

Madame Giry turned from Erik and faced Jessica, who looked the ballet mistress squarely in the eyes, though her eyebrows curved upward, showing her fear and hesitation. Jessica had no idea what had just passed between Madame Giry and Erik.

"Jessica," Erik said quietly, as if he were talking to a small child, "this is Madame Giry. She'll help you find something suitable to wear." Jessica nodded and Giry, using mainly hand motions and a stray word here and there, directed the girl to follow her. Erik quickly left the room, not wanting to see anything of this process.

The dress was just that: a dress. Jessica crinkled her nose in disgust when she saw it, causing Madame Giry to give her a questioning look.

"I don't like dresses…" she trailed off, realizing that the woman couldn't understand her. On an impulse, she grabbed the leg of her jean and shook it, making a happy face and nodding her head. Then she pointed to the dress in front of her and looked like she had eaten a bug. The result was instantaneous: Giry burst out laughing, and then motioned for Jessica to undress. Though she found the girl humorous, she wasn't about to be sidetracked from her main task. Sighing, Jessica pulled her hair into a messy bun and complied with her wishes.

Time passed slowly for Erik—he had never been an overly patient man. Finally he was rewarded by Antoinette's door opening. He stepped inside, and saw only Giry.

"What happened to Jessica?" he asked.

"You talk to her," Antoinette said in a huff. "I find her a dress that fits well—and you don't know how much of a miracle that is!—and she acts as if she's… embarrassed to be seen in it! I can't believe her! I may not give her that which has clothed queens, but you'd—! Honestly, Erik! Speak with her!" She pointed to a wall divider, where Erik could just make out the girl's silhouette.

"Jessica?" he asked quietly, praying that she wouldn't try his patience. "Don't act like this. You've insulted Madame Giry. Come out from behind there and show what it looks like on you."

"Tell her I'm sorry for insulting her, but I'm not coming out," Jessica said. "I look like a _girl _!" Erik felt his temper start to rise.

"I thought you were a girl," he accused. "Now come out here, or I'll drag you out!"

"And what if I'm not decent?"

"To hell with decency!" Erik growled. "You have five seconds." There was a slight shifting behind the divider. "Four seconds." The shifting stopped. "Three seconds. Two seconds. One se—"

"Alright! Alright already!" Jessica cried as she stepped into view. "There. Are you happy now?"

Erik nearly choked; she looked… beautiful. The dress was a soft pink, and the petticoats showing were a pearly white, making her face glow ethereally. The bodice fit snugly underneath her bust line and the skirt fit perfectly against her waist, the fabric flowing gently in a waterfall of cloth. The color made her eyes sparkle, her lips look like roses, and her hair—oh no. Her hair was all wrong.

Erik walked up behind her and pulled out her bun. "What are you doing?" Jessica cried, trying to slap away his hands as he arranged her brown tresses to frame her face. Erik ignored her, and purposely pulled a lock of her hair to warn her to be silent. She bit her lower lip and waited until he was finished.

"There," he said when he thought her appropriate. He pulled her in front of Giry's vanity. "Now you look beautiful."

Though Jessica hated to admit it, he was right. She gingerly touched the side of her face; the woman in the mirror did the same.

"Is that… really me?" she asked in wonder. She never wore her hair down back at home, and everyone knew that she would never be caught dead in a dress. But this… this seemed to not only make her look good, but to also make her feel, as Erik put it, beautiful.

Erik motioned to Madame Giry and held a hurried conversation with her. "What are you talking about?" Jessica asked. "Oh, and didn't you say that I insulted her? Uh, how do you say 'I'm sorry' in French?"

Erik told her the words to say, and after Jessica dutifully repeated them and Antoinette was sufficiently mollified, he added, "I was asking her the size of this dress. We'll need to get you more like it, if I know women. Your gender has a tendency to require several different types of clothing." Jessica groaned at the thought of more dresses, but Erik ignored her. Taking her arm, he led her out of the room.

"We'll need to take a quick stop back at my house; I forgot my cloak. Oh! And I almost forgot! Wait here; I'll be back in just a minute." He left Jessica standing just outside the panel of the secret passageway as he trailed back into Madame Giry's dressing room.

"Antoinette?" She turned around and faced him. "About those clothes Jessica had been wearing before… can I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Of course, Erik."

"Good." He smiled like a Cheshire cat. "Incinerate them for me, would you?"


	5. Chapter 5

Jessica had never seen an outdoor market before, having done all her shopping up to this point at her local outlet mall. She watched with silent, bemused interest as Erik haggled with a vender, slightly in awe at the fact that he seemed to get the best deal even though his cloak covered his entire face. She noticed that the venders seemed to watch his hands more than anything, and she herself felt drawn in to the unintelligible conversation, letting the music of the language wash over her. She made a mental note to herself: as soon as she got home again, she would enroll in some French classes.

Erik crooked his finger at the girl and she followed dutifully behind him. He felt on edge; he _hated_ shopping. Absolutely _hated_ it! He could feel the stares burning into the back of his head from curious onlookers, and today there seemed to be even more of them than usual. Erik glanced around, and under his hood he saw not one, but several young man staring at him transfixed. He was debating the idea of whether or not to do something about them when he realized that they weren't staring at him; they were staring at Jessica!

The stupid girl stood, in the middle of the fray, with a soft, dreamy look on her face. She wandered from stall to stall, never too far behind Erik, looking at all the wares. Whenever a vender approached her, she merely looked up, her eyes growing wide, shook her head and held up her hand in a gesture that clearly meant "no". The young men couldn't get enough of her.

Erik floated behind her and handed her the sewing materials he had just bought. Linking his arm through hers, he hurried her along, flashing anyone who dared to look a murderous glance. Most of the men averted their eyes, pretending to be interested in something else. Several gave the couple an indignant snort, but eventually, the young girl had been forgotten in their minds.

Half dragged, half running, Jessica followed Erik, her arm linked tightly against his body. She was about to say something, when they arrived in front of a dressmaker's shop. Jessica cringed; though she was wearing one at that moment, the thought of even more dresses made her stomach turn. She shot Erik a glance, her eyebrows turned upwards as she silently begged him not to make her go in. He ignored her, and pulled her along.

The door opened with the tinkle of a bell, and a woman's voice called out to them from the back of the shop. Erik answered her, then quickly whispered to Jessica that the saleswoman would be out in a moment.

"I don't think I'll ever learn this language," Jessica said quietly, taking the sewing items Erik had given her and tucking them into a small basket he had forced her to carry. "It's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible. I'll teach you. In a year or so, you'll be speaking French fluently."

"A year?" she wined, groaning at the thought. "That'll take forever!"

Erik rolled his eyes; she was such a child. "There are other things you need to learn as well. You must learn how to sew, how to dance, how to sing, how—"

"Excuse me, but I can already dance," Jessica interrupted hotly. "I've been dancing since I was five. Well, not like, professionally or competitively or anything, but I know how to dance ballet. Although, I was trying to figure out whether or not to quit this year… School and sports and everything just makes my life too hectic."

Erik finally looked at her, his hidden eyes showing his surprise. "Nevertheless," he continued, "you need to know how to be a woman. Do all American women act like you?"

"Not in this time period, but from where—when I'm from—yeah, pretty much."

At this point, the saleswoman stepped out of the back shop, welcoming the pair to her establishment and apologizing for not waiting on them sooner. Jessica watched in silence as Erik explained how she knew no French, and the saleswoman nodded with the greatest show of concern. Erik nudged Jessica forward with a quick "go with her", and sat down in one of the chairs used by husbands who waited for their wives. Jessica smiled hesitantly as the woman led her to the back shop and took her measurements. The process didn't take very much time, and the girl was led back to Erik.

"Well?" he addressed the saleswoman.

"Your daughter is of a very average size, monsieur," she replied, looking at the measurements she had written down. "I have several dresses in the shop that would fit her very well, and I could easily custom design some for her."

_You daughter… daughter… Your… daughter… _The woman's words spun around in Erik's mind. His daughter? They didn't look a thing alike—well, he had covered his face with his cloak. The woman would just naturally assume… but she was so different from him! She didn't even speak the same language! His _daughter_?

In the end, Erik spent more money on clothes than he had originally intended, but he had managed to knock down the price on pairs of shoes for his… daughter. The articles in question were to be delivered to the Opera Populaire to a Madame Giry. Erik would pick them up later. His daughter… the very thought of Jessica being his assumed daughter made him want to laugh and yell at the same time. Though, perhaps it was better this way; Jessica would be safe, for awhile, and there wouldn't be any questions about their relationship. And he could always have Madame Giry "adopt" the girl. No, that was he plan from the beginning. _Stick to the plan_, he reminded himself, taking Jessica's arm and thanking the milliner once more for her services.

Jessica had been deathly quiet during the whole conversation. As soon as they were out of the shop, she confronted Erik.

"You shouldn't have bought me that."

Erik turned to her, looking stunned. "I couldn't have you running around like a man, now could I?"

"No, what I meant was, you shouldn't have bought me so much. I feel really… guilty about that. I don't know how I can pay you back, and I don't want to be indebted to anyone."

"While righteousness is admirable in someone with a chance to obey their higher callings, in your case it's plain stupidity. Don't worry about this; I've never had a large shopping trip like this in my life, so it was a treat for me as well." Erik was lying there; he hated shopping, but for some reason, he didn't want Jessica to feel so badly about something she couldn't control.

"I'll pay you back though," she said with a determined air. "I promise you that. I won't be a leech." Erik nodded quietly, not really paying attention to her and believing that all girls her age had heads full of air.

…

"Thank you, Madame Giry, for loaning me the sle-sleepwear," Jessica said in French. Erik stood behind her, smirking proudly at the thought that his pupil could accomplish that small sentence with just one mistake. Giry handed the girl the sleeping-clothes, and watched as the Phantom led her into one of the passageways. Giry sighed wearily, hoping that Erik would try to be a reasonable teacher with the girl. He could be so stubborn, so… Erik-like, that sometimes she didn't know what to do with him. Crossing herself quickly, she offered a small prayer up to heaven that if anyone were to best her Erik, it would be this little Jessica girl.

…

Undressing was much easier than dressing had been. The nightgown was a little large on her frame, but Jessica wasn't complaining. Instead, she brushed her hair with… with _her _brush, (though she refused to think of it as hers, no matter what Erik said) as she sat on the bed. His bed. Her eyebrows crossing in confusion, Jessica rose from the bed and walked out of the bedroom. _Even though it technically isn't a room, since it doesn't have door, _she thought to herself. She wandered aimlessly throughout a hallway that looked eerily similar to the ones aboveground until she found Erik, just sitting down to play at a grand piano.

"Erik?" she asked, leaning a little against the doorframe; unlike "her" bedroom, this room had a door. "Where are you—that is, where am I going to sleep tonight?"

He looked at her like she had grown another head. "In the bed, of course."

"But I thought you said that it was your bed?" The last thing Jessica wanted to do was take over; after all, he had already bought her a whole wardrobe on their shopping trip today.

"Yes," Erik sighed, "but you should sleep there tonight. I'm a bit of an insomniac. I'll be fine composing tonight."

"You compose?"

"Yes."

And that was the end to the conversation, at least in Erik's mind. Jessica, of course, had other ideas:

"Will you play me something?"

There was a pause; had Erik heard her correctly? Jessica started again.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she rushed. "I mean, I'm sure you're busy and all, and I don't want to force you to do something if you don't—"

"I'll play. Come here." Erik crooked his finger at her, motioning for her to sit at his feet when he played, as it would be awkward for her to share the bench with him. Obediently, she sat down, too tired to pitch a fuss over not sitting on a chair or how sexist and demeaning it was to have a woman sit at a man's feet. Erik began to play.

Jessica had always prided herself on being front and foremost in the music trends. She listened to music before it was popular, and she knew the names of every Top 50 singer. But this music… this music was so different from what she had listened to before. It sounded like her mother's classical CD's—things Jessica instinctively shied away from. At first, she tried tapping out a beat to Erik's song, but eventually gave up, realizing that it was nearly impossible with the ever-so-slightly shifting tempo. The music washed over her in waves; first loud, then soft, like the ebb of the tide. Sighing, she leaned her head against Erik's knee and closed her eyes, concentrating.

By the time Erik had finished the lullaby, the desired effect had been procured; Jessica had fallen into a deep, silent sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Erik started whistling as flipped the eggs in the frying pan. Looking at them quizzically, he decided to add a pinch of salt, sprinkling it with a flourish before he laughed at himself for being so dramatic. _After all, _he thought, _I am the Opera Ghost! _He had finished with his eggs, plating them, and then sitting down to enjoy his breakfast when Jessica came in the room. Erik gagged on his mouthful of food.

"What?" Jessica asked, her voice gravely and rough; all the signs of having just woken up.

"You—you're—you're hair!" Erik started laughing. "You—ha ha—have the worst—ha—case of—ha ha ha—bedhead I've ever seen!" He dissolved in a fit of giggles as Jessica stuck her tongue out at him.

"It's your fault, you know," she chided. "You had me fall asleep at your piano. I woke up to see that you just threw a blanket over me! You could have carried me into bed!"

"Yes," Erik giggled, "but this way, I got my bed back." Jessica rolled her eyes, muttering something about men. She started to make herself some eggs as well, but stopped once she realized that she didn't know how to cook them.

"What's up with your stove?" she asked, looking for some way to turn it on. "It's really old. Oh, wait. Right." She had forgotten for a moment that she went "back in time". _'Either that, or I'm in a coma,' _she thought. '_Probably in a coma.'_

"Actually, it's the newest electric stove on the market," Erik said as he walked over to where she was and started the stove. "I've had to tap into the opera's electricity source though. What a pain! And I can't use an excess of electricity, otherwise those idiot managers will suspect something."

"Wait… we're underneath an opera house?" Jessica asked as she cracked her own eggs. Erik returned to his seat at the table.

"The Opera Populaire, the greatest opera house in all of Paris, if not all of France!" he boasted proudly. "And that's only because the resident Opera Ghost—O.G., if you will—built it himself! Well, with some help."

"Opera Ghost… No way!" Her mom's and her sister's favorite musical came to her mind. "You're the Phantom of the Opera, aren't you!" Erik nodded, pleased that—even if he was a little confused as to how—she knew. "My mom and my sister loved that musical!"

"Musical?"

"Oh, right. It was made in… I think the eighties? Nineties? I don't know. Mom loved it though. Her favorite song was something like 'Nighttime Music' or something. 'Music of the Night', I think. I don't know."

"'Music of the Night'?"

"Never mind." Jessica turned back to her eggs; she didn't know much about the musical anyways, though her sister said that the guy who played the Phantom in the movie was super hot. Somehow, Jessica didn't think Erik would appreciate her saying that.

Erik shrugged off his ward's words—that was how he had decided to think of her: his ward. She was most definitely not his daughter, but he knew that they would have to pretend to be related in order to not draw suspicion to themselves. His ward—it was rather humorous to think of her like that—sat down at the table across from him.

After several moments, Erik spoke again. "Your manners are atrocious. Take your elbows off the table." He turned back to his breakfast. Jessica took her plate and stood.

"Well, excuse me," she said. "If I'm disturbing you so much, why don't I just leave?"

"Sit back down," he commanded, thoroughly enjoying his role as master over his ward. "And sit up straight." Jessica huffed, but complied. Erik continued criticizing her. "I know you're an American, but still! That sort of behavior and manner is not tolerated here. Here, watch me." He demonstrated the table manners Giry had forced him to learn.

He could still see that day. It had been a week after she had saved him from the gypsies; he had been hiding in a room off of the opera's chapel. She was sitting crossed legged on the floor, pouring some tea into some china cups, motioning for him to sit down. The picture they made was of a nineteen-year-old sister playing picnic with her eight-year-old brother, though the little brother wore a mask he had fashioned for himself on half his face. Antoinette had had a ruler with her, and whenever Erik would not act civil she would tap him, none too gently, on the hand. If he became surly, she would merely remind him that if he wanted people to accept him, he would have to learn how to be civilized.

Erik was brought back to reality when he noticed Jessica crossing her arms and giving him a look that he must have given Antoinette a thousand times.

"What does it matter?" she asked. "It's not like I'll be here that long anyways." In truth, however, she had no idea how she would get home.

"Jessica," Erik sighed, "I am normally a reasonable man. I would not have you learn anything that I didn't find worthwhile; therefore, stop being a brat and just listen to me. You are not home at the moment, and I will not have you acting like a savage. Now, elbows off the table, and close your mouth—you are not a catfish."

Jessica's lessons had only just begun.

…

Jessica flopped on the bed, hot, tired, and dejected. The whole day had been a living hell for her. Erik had systematically started to teach her how to sew, how to draw, how to sing, and, most importantly, how to speak and read French. She failed miserably at everything he tried to have her do. He told her that she'll get better, and that it was only her first day at learning these things, but she felt so downhearted that she barely heard his words, and it didn't help that she could see in his eyes that he was only trying to be nice. She knew how much of a failure she was in his eyes; even dancing she failed, though not as terribly. She could keep the rhythm well, but he had to constantly remind her to not lead during the waltz.

Jessica felt a tear slide down the side of her face and hit the bedspread. She wiped it away and willed herself to stop crying; she hated the fact that she cried out of frustration! She absolutely hated it! All her friends would give her those sympathetic smiles and ask if she wanted some help. Of course she didn't want any help. She wanted to things right! She knew that no one could be a perfectionist, but that didn't stop the feelings of shame and humiliation from rising up to her throat. She was such a failure!

"Jessica." Oh, God, not him. Anyone but him! Erik sat on the bed as Jessica squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing him to go away. He had no intention of doing so, but instead watched her very closely. He knew it wasn't his fault that she was so artless, but he still felt guilty that she was so disappointed in herself. Gently, he laid one of his hands on her forehead, covering her eyes in case she decided to let a few more tears fall.

"It's alright," he cooed softly, then chided himself for trying to be nice to this girl. _'Why should I care about her so much? She's nothing more than a girl!'_

"No it's not," Jessica hissed out, swallowing her tears. "I suck at every-everything." Her voice broke and she forced herself to be quiet.

Erik sounded like he was speaking to a small child. "No you don't. It's just the first day. I promise, everything will be easier tomorrow. You just need—" He stopped himself; he didn't know what she needed. "It will all be easier tomorrow."

"Yeah, right."

"It will." He raised his voice in earnest. "You've learned so much today. And tomorrow will be another adventure. In a week, you'll be ready for me to speak only in French to you, and—"

"A week!" Jessica sat bolt upright, then fell back down with a groan. How could she manage speaking only in French?

Erik smiled, glad that she had finished crying. "It won't be too difficult. I'll speak slowly, and I'll still speak English if you need clarification on something." On impulse, he bent down and kissed the very top of her forehead. Jessica's eyes went wide, but she said nothing.

"Now, get some sleep. You've had a busy day today and you'll have a busier one tomorrow." He stood and lowered the lace curtain. "Pleasant dreams."

Jessica waited until he was out of the room before she allowed herself to think about the fact that he had just kissed her. It was something her father insisted on doing every night before she went to bed, even though she had insisted that, at sixteen, she was far too old for goodnight kisses.

She would give anything to have another goodnight kiss from her dad at that very moment; anything at all.

Another tear fell down her face, and she berated herself for being weak. _'I'm better than this! I know I am! Don't cry. You can't cry. Don't you dare cry!' _Her body didn't listen to her head though, and the next morning, she woke up with a tearstained pillowcase.

* * *

**You are getting sleepy... your eyelids are getting heavy... you want to leave me a nice, fat review!**

**Special thanks to Keyra93 who has already done so! Erik will definately bake you massive ammounts of cookies!**


	7. Chapter 7

The Opera Ghost floated through the rafters, listening to the rambunctious noises below him. He watched with quiet amusement as two stagehands, too drunk to walk in a straight line, sang out lustily to famous works of Puccini. One of the men fell flat on his face, and his friend bent double laughing. _'It's enough noise to wake the dead,' _thought Erik, instantly glad that he had left Jessica to concentrate on her embroidery.

The girl had been living with him for three weeks, and she had been making great strides in all her studies. There had been issues, at first, and more than once Erik had been sure she had brushed away frustrated tears when she was sure he hadn't been looking, but that was a thing of the past now. She could speak in complete sentences! Erik was very impressed with his pupil.

Jessica had made him change things. He had changed his cleaning habits (what would she know about bachelors living in squalor anyways?), and had even built himself a bed out of a coffin in his music room. Truthfully, he only used the coffin to annoy her; she took one look and declared him a "morbid little creeper." He took one look at what she called "clean" and told her she was a neat-freak. They had spent the rest of the day ignoring each other by doing menial tasks, composing and attempting to read in French, respectively. That evening was spent in a heated game of bridge (to think she had never played before!) before they parted their separate ways for bed and started all over again the next morn.

It was a wonderful relationship.

…

Jessica laid down her embroidery and rubbed her eyes; he had been gone for nearly an hour. She was used to Erik leaving her at random intervals, but he never normally left so late at night. Sighing, she picked up her work and began again, instantly wincing at the fact that she was sitting, in a dress, and sewing. _'Or _embroidering_,' _she thought with contempt, remembering how Erik gave her a lecture on the differences between the two. _'I swear, that man is so full of himself. I wonder where he learned to sew anyways? Probably from Madame Giry… she'd be the one to force him to learn something like this.' _Imagining Erik under the supervision of Madame Giry, with whom Jessica had began to treat as a surrogate mother, the girl smiled, and threaded her needle with relish.

…

Monsieur Martin, the Director of the Arts; Director of Public Services; Assistant Manager of the Opera Populaire; and Overseer of Budget Distribution, was not a man to be trifled with. He had been at his post for decades, and had earned his reputation as being the most hard-headed, belligerent, and stolid man there could be in an opera house. He never believed in legends, always went to church on Sundays, and was consequently bombarded by little ballet rats running into his office, wailing about some "Opera Ghost". Monsieur Martin would dry their eyes, pat them on the head, and tell them how silly they were acting.

At least, he _used _to, before he knew the Opera Ghost first hand.

Monsieur Martin, when he first received them, scoffed at the notes from a Monsieur "O.G." He believed that it was just someone in the Populaire trying to make some extra money. He refused to pay out the twenty thousand francs a month.

He had paid the consequences.

Fingering the scar on his left arm, Monsieur Martin tucked the money-stuffed envelope underneath the wing of the angel statue just outside Box 5. He flinched continuously throughout his actions, and jumped whenever he heard the slightest noise, but finally the envelope was secure. He could go home, forget about the loss of the substantial amount of money, and relax. There would be no Opera Ghost after him this time. There would be no saws flying at him, no scenery pieces falling on him, no act of any sort of revenge from the "O.G." He had done his part.

An hour later, the envelope was gone, and one happy Erik made his way back to his home.

…

There was a man, standing over their bodies, his knives dripping with blood. She was so scared, she wanted to scream, but fear held her rooted to the spot. Somehow, somehow, the man must have known that she was there, for he turned and cast his eyes on her. They glowed red with the blood he had just spilled.

"Look, little one," he hissed, his voice like sandpaper on ice. "Look what I have done." She found herself by his side then, looking at the mutilated bodies. She could recognize them, all of them, and found hysteria welling up in her throat.

"Do you see, little one?" he asked, chuckling in her ear. "Do you see what I did? You know them, don't you? You know that you'll never see them again. They're gone, little one. Long gone." And with that, he grabbed her and pinned her up against a wall that hadn't been there before, pressing his bloody knives against her throat. "Long gone… so long… Goodbye, little one."

…

"Erik!"

Erik felt himself being shaken by unseen hands. "Huh? Yes? What?" he asked stupidly, and was answered by a body throwing itself at him. Jessica. _'I thought she didn't like my coffin. Bed. Coffin bed.'_ "Jessica?"

"Oh, thank God!" she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and burrowing her head into his shoulder. "Oh, thank God!" She was too afraid to cry this time, making herself listen to Erik's heartbeat, proving to herself that it was only a dream, only a dream—

"It was only a dream," she murmured to herself, snuggling closer to Erik. "Just a dream. It wasn't real. Just a dream… oh God!" Erik blinked furiously; what was going on?

"I thought…" Jessica began, as if she could read his mind. "I thought you had… had died. You were one of the bodies… oh thank God!" In a scuffling, awkward motion, she propelled her body into his bed. Erik winced; her knee hit dangerously close to an incredibly sensitive spot for all males.

There was another awkward silence between them, at least, awkward to Erik's mind. His ward seemed to have fallen asleep. Rolling his eyes, he shifted her weight off of his stomach and started to crawl out of bed, but her arms tightened around his neck.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" she asked quietly, her voice coming out small against his shoulder. She lifted her head to see a very surprised looked Erik staring at her. "Please? I… I just don't want to sleep by myself again tonight. I don't want… that is, if you're here, by me, I'll know that it's only a dream, and I won't wake up screaming. Again."

Erik let out a long breath, deliberating. "You won't accuse me of being a pervert, or a rapist, or whatever you tend to call me?" he asked as he lay back down, positioning their bodies so that they lay side-by-side. He wrapped his arm around her waist, not for any other purpose except for the fact that if he didn't, he would eventually cut off all circulation.

"I won't, I promise." She leaned her head back into his shoulder with a yawn. "Goodnight, Erik."

…

The next morning was a very quiet morning underneath the Opera Populaire. Erik and Jessica weren't speaking to each other, not out of anger, but out of several different emotions. Jessica was certain that she had over-stepped her boundaries by asking to sleep with Erik last night, then wondered why she didn't feel slimy when she realized that she _slept with a man! _Granted, it wasn't as if they were doing anything other than _sleeping, _but the very thought… At any rate, she stayed silent that morning.

Erik, on the other hand, was fighting emotions of a different kind. He was angry at the girl for interrupting his sleep, but at the same time, glad that she had. It felt… nice… to sleep with her. It was rather comforting knowing that there was another person beside you, there just in case something bad happened. He now knew why Jessica needed him beside her that night, and didn't find it surprising in the least that she slept soundly after she invaded his bed. The real problem was that yes, it physically felt nice to have some warmth beside him last night, but he actually… enjoyed it. He enjoyed holding her and being with her.

No. No, he wouldn't think like that now. He needed to get rid of this girl; pass her on to Madame Giry. Why couldn't she learn French any faster? Why couldn't she learn how to act sweet and demure and womanly, instead of like a bratty smart-aleck? He needed to leave her, or get her to leave him.

It made his heart hurt to think so.

'_No!' _he thought harshly to himself, looking out of the corner of his eye at Jessica. She was poured over one of his old architecture textbooks; his heart felt another pang. _'I need to get rid of her! I need to go back to my normal life! She can't be around me forever!'_

"Why do you sleep with your mask on?"

Erik looked up. Jessica repeated her question, looking at him quizzically. Erik cleared his throat:

"I came in late. I had to… pick up my salary. Stop speaking in English! You'll never learn French that way."

"I… speak...? Yes. I speak English last night."

"Spoke. Speak is _spoke_ in the past tense." Erik suddenly switched to English. "I let you do so because you were tired. We were both tired. Now, I'm going to go back up to the Opera, and I want you to put on something nice." He motioned to her nightdress. "You need to get outside, and I can't be watching you all the time. I'll see if Antoinette will let you… I don't know, dance in the studio or something."

Jessica's face broke into a huge grin as she rose from the table and raced out of the room, but stopped just before entering her bedroom. Turning back, she ran to Erik and gave him a hug.

"Thank you," she said, making sure to speak in French. "Thank you, Erik."

* * *

**Oh my goodness! An entire chapter where Jessica _doesn't_ cry! What is the world coming to?**

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	8. Chapter 8

"Now, I don't want you running outside of the studio and all around the opera house, unless Madame Giry instructs you to, understand?" Erik commanded, leering over his ward on his right, Antoinette Giry on his left. "Giry? Make sure she does something of value. Get her to meet some of the little ballet rats." Antoinette coughed, and Erik rolled his eyes. He knew that she didn't like to have her charges referred to as "ballet rats", but he didn't care. He took Antoinette's hand, kissed it, and then patted Jessica on the head, like a dog. Turning on his heel, he disappeared into another passageway, much to Jessica's amazement and Antoinette's disapproval. One saw the action as showy; the other, as magical.

"Come along," Giry said, motioning for Jessica to follow her. She continued talking as she led the two of them to the dance studio. "I'm having the girls practice onstage for the upcoming opera, and you'll have the studio all to yourself. I'll send my daughter to check on you after awhile, but for the most part you'll be all alone. Stretch, dance, do whatever, but don't hurt yourself, and don't wonder off; I have no desire to deal with Erik if something happened to you. Now, normally—"

"Slower, please," Jessica begged, using the little French Erik had recently taught her that morning. "I speak… small French."

"_Little _French. I speak _little _French," Madame Giry corrected, and then adjusted the tempo of her words. "My daughter will check on you after awhile. Don't hurt yourself. I have spare leotards, tights, and skirts in the closet. I'll show you where." Jessica, catching only every other words, but still understanding the general ideas behind the phrases, nodded.

…

"No, girls! Your leaps should be developpe! Try it again!" The girls complied quickly to Madame Giry's requests, knowing full well that she had no hesitancy to use her cane if they did not perform up to her standard.

The ballet mistress gave every move a critical eye. If anything was flawed in any way—not fully extended, half a second behind the group, out of line—she shouted it for the entire stage to hear. The Prima Dona and the Primo Uno, La Carlotta and her counterpart Piangi, gave her glares across the stage where they were going over the minor alterations to their duet. Madame Giry gave them a glare that would freeze Hell, and they turned back to their music.

…

Jessica loved the feel of a leotard. It wasn't as nice as booty shorts and a tee, her volleyball uniform, but the fabric hugged her close and made her glad that she had inherited her father's tall frame. She knew for a fact that she didn't have a traditional "dancer's body", so dancing professionally was something she had pushed out of her mind over the years, but that didn't stop her from dancing for fun. She wasn't as good as some of the girls in her school, especially not those who were at the studio every day for hours at a time, but she was better than most, and she loved moving her body to the music. School dances, dance class, even dancing in the kitchen was fun, as long as there was a good song on the radio.

Shaking her head at her tendency to ramble, she started warming up at the barre, wishing that the 1800's had a stereo system instead of a grand piano in the corner.

…

Jacques-Louis Martin was smitten with Marguerite ("Meg") Giry. She had the most beautiful eyes that sparkled when she laughed, and her laugh in itself was enough to drive any sane man mad! Jacques-Louis felt his heart race whenever he thought of her, not to mention whenever he actually _saw _her! His father said that he should stay away from Little Meg, and that her mother was a superstitious old fool, but Jacques-Louis ignored him. He truly felt that this was love more superior than anything a man, or woman, had felt in centuries. He felt that a love such as this exceeded all boundaries, and that he had special privileges where wooing his lady-love was concerned.

Therefore, was it any surprise that, when Meg left the ballet troupe's practice at the order of her mother, he followed?

…

Erik saw. Erik knew.

He watched that foolish Jacques-Louis Martin follow Meg Giry, and laughed at the young boy's folly. He himself had given up the thought of love a long, long time ago, accepting the fact that he would always be alone. That is, he _will _always be alone as soon as he got rid of Jessica. His little girl… No! She wasn't his! No matter how much he pretended in public that she was his daughter, he had to remember that it was just that: a façade of a relationship. There was nothing between them. Nothing.

Now, if only he could convince the little niggling voice in the back of his mind of that fact.

Sighing, he followed the two children beneath him, reasoning that he was only supervising Meg and Jessica in order that they become good friends, so that it would be easier on everyone when he left his little ward with Madame Giry.

…

"Bonjour!" Meg cried when she saw the girl she assumed to be Jessica. "I'm Meg! Well, Marguerite Giry, if that's who you were told to expect. You must be Jessica!" She gave the girl a once over, and nodded ever-so-slightly in approval; this girl wasn't a threat to her dancing career in the slightest. Feeling more confident, Meg took one of Jessica's hands in both of hers, and clutched it tightly.

"I'm sure we'll be the best of friends!" Her voice resonated enthusiastically. Jessica's eyes widened with confusion, but then she spoke, slowly and hesitantly, and the sparkle in Meg's eyes danced with delight.

"Bonjour… I am Jessica. You are… you are very nice and very pretty. You are a good friend." Jessica couldn't really say the word's she wished to say, especially with her limited vocabulary, but Meg seemed to understand her handicap and adjusted the speed of her words for her new friend.

"I'm so glad to meet you. You dance very well." _'For a beginner,' _she added in her head. "Where—"

"Marguerite!" cried a voice, and both girls whipped around to see Jacques-Louis standing in the studio, his eyes softening at the sight of his love. Meg rolled her eyes and muttered several curses under her breath, much to Jessica's amusement; she made a mental note to repeat those words to Erik to see his reaction.

"Who is this?" Jessica asked, looking from the boy to Meg and back again. He was tall and gangly, with his dark brown hair falling in front of his eyes and out of his ponytail. Jessica had to laugh at that; she had never seen a boy tie his hair back before.

"Jacques-Louis Martin, why on earth are you here?" Meg cried accusingly, forgetting about Jessica for a moment. "You followed me, didn't you? Why must you always do such things!"

"I couldn't help it!" Jacques-Louis moaned, taking an overly dramatic step forward. "I saw you leave the corps de ballet and my heart would not cease to ache until I followed you." He lowered his head in shame. "Please, oh please, would you—could you?—find it in your heart to forgive me?" Meg rolled her eyes again.

"Get up." She refused to forgive him, but it was embarrassing to have a boy grovel before her in front of her new friend. She cast an apologetic glance at Jessica, who, in turn, had used the conversation to form the opinion that all men from this time periods were perverts. After all, she had yet to meet a man who did not strike her as the "I-will-build-a-shrine-of-you-in-my-backyard" type.

"I'm Jessica," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. Jacques-Louis looked at it strangely, then took it and lightly brushed his lips over her fingers. Jessica blushed; Meg groaned.

"Out with you!" the ballerina cried, shooing her "lover" out of the studio. She turned back to Jessica and gave her a smile that would have melted the heart of one Jacques-Louis.

"Come with me," she said, offering Jessica her arm. "I'm going to show you around the opera. You'll love it here!" She led her new friend out of the studio, chatting amiably and waiting for Jessica to take control of the conversation.

…

Jacques-Louis watched Meg lead Jessica out of the studio, and though his first reaction was to follow them, his instinct told him to let them go. Leaning against a wall, Jacques-Louis knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. That girl—Jessica—she looked at him so strangely; he couldn't possibly understand why... he could tell that she wasn't from France, her accent told him that much, so he assumed that she couldn't understand him and his Meg. Or could she…?

Perhaps that was what the look was; she thought him strange, abnormal. What did the men back where she came from act like? Were they more forward? Did they profess their love? Did Jessica think him strange because of his intense feelings for Meg Giry? Did she understand that he loved Meg with a fiery passion of a thousand white-hot suns? Or did she think that he was just following them? Did she think he would hurt Meg? What could she have been thinking of him? Why did she look at him so strangely? Where did she come from? Why—

Jacques-Louis groaned, sliding down the wall with his head in his hands. He needed to know more about this Jessica girl. He needed to meet her approval, or at the very least know why she had looked at him so strangely.

And Meg was his ticket to do so!

His Meg knew how to get information out of people; she knew how to get people to open up. Jacques-Louis smiled, lowering his head from his hands. Oh yes, his little Meg would learn the information, and he would get it out of her. After all, he was sure she loved him as much as he loved her, even if she had not admitted it yet.

* * *

**To all my readers: this chapter did _not_ want to be written. If it feels a little forced, hurried, or anything else, please know that it is, and only because my muse and I are not on speaking terms at the moment. I tried to vary it and make it as interesting as I could, (note the massive point of view switches in the beginning), but nothing really worked. I'll try to bring in more action in the next chapters, I promise.**

**On a related note, I've been getting questions about whether or not Christine will show up. Don't worry, she will make her appearance, but not yet. I've also been getting questions about an Erik/Jessica romance, but I'm not allowed to tell _that _little secret yet. It's all very hush-hush, and if I told, Erik would kill me.**

**Special thanks to Keyra93, Phantom's-only-Christine, mysticrox123, Malanrea, , and FallIntoTheGrey for their reviews.**

**Want to get on my "Special Thanks" list? Just review! C'mon, you know you want to! You want to say what you think I should have done, or what I did well, or whatever. And Erik will bake cookies for everyone who reviews! (He might just have a hard time getting them to you all... he seems to have developed an addiction to chocolate.)**


	9. Chapter 9

"She's smart," Meg said indignantly, pushing Jacques-Louis aside. It had been nearly three months since she had met Jessica in the ballet studio, and the two girls had grown closer and closer together, much like sisters. Meg had helped Jessica meet other ballerinas, and even one or two of the chorus members, had given her advice about how to act around everyone from La Carlotta to Monsieur Martin, who had taken a liking to the girl right away. Meg, like everyone else in the Populaire, loved Monsieur Martin; it was his son who was the little _perverti_.

"Why do you want to know about her?" Meg asked defensively, fixing Jacques-Louis with a stare she learned from her mother. "Are you thinking of following _her _around now as well?"

"No, no," he replied, his hair falling into his eyes as he tried to fix her with a dashing smile. His smile dropped back to a frown once he realized that Meg was most certainly not amused. "I merely wish to know more about her for… that is, so I don't make a fool of myself around her. I wouldn't want to embarrass your new friend."

Meg turned her head away with a little huff, gathering up her dance bag. "I told you already, she's smart. She doesn't know much French, but she's smart and lively. She can follow a conversation fairly well, though half the time I swear she's only listening so she can pick up new words. Honestly, go ask her yourself; I'm sure you'd get more information from her than from me." And with that, Meg left Jacques-Louis standing all alone in the corridor without as much as a glance to say goodbye.

Jacques-Louis let out an exasperated sigh; couldn't his darling little Meg understand? He could just go and talk to Jessica, but that glance, that fleeting glance she had given him… it sent his mind spiraling. He needed to know _what _she thought of him, if only so he could learn whether or not it would be worth staying friends with her in order to get closer to Meg. Ah, Meg. The sweetest, kindest, most gentle girl in the entire corps de ballet.

Jacques-Louis smiled, and decided to take his little lover's advice: he would seek out Jessica himself.

…

Monsieur Martin, the Director of the Arts; Director of Public Services; Assistant Manager of the Opera Populaire; and Overseer of Budget Distribution, was on the same mission himself. He had found Jessica not only to be a likable girl, but to have a fine head on her shoulders, and he was in dire need of a secretary. Life as the Director of Arts; Director of Public Services; Assistant Manager of the Opera Populaire; and Overseer of Budget Distribution was chaotic at best, and he was drowning in paperwork. The latest opera had had such a large turnout that Monsieur Martin almost felt at ease with the idea of paying the Opera Ghost his monthly salary.

Almost.

Monsieur Martin found Jessica in the back, helping the Props Master organize the current state of the props room. He smiled when he saw her hard at work; it was obvious by the intense emotion plastered on her face that she would make a fine secretary.

"Mademoiselle Jessica," he called out to her, motioning with his hand that he would like to have a private word alone. Jessica looked up hesitantly at the Props Master, but once receiving his consent to leave her work, she hurried to Monsieur Martin's side.

…

Erik had only just lain down his quill pen when he was assaulted by a warm mass of euphoric screaming. An involuntary noise passed his lips as his diaphragm forced air out of his body. He looked down, at first startled, then annoyed.

Jessica. Of all the people…! Strands of her hair were caught in his lips, a direct result of her throwing herself on him, even though her head lay comfortably buried in his shoulder. He could feel her smiling through the cotton of his shirt, and in an instant all his annoyance abated.

"I'm glad to see you too," he chuckled, his hand resting gently on her hair. "Though I'm not so sure that attacking someone is the best way to say that you missed them in your day aboveground. What did you do today? Did you finish sorting the props? It was a mess in there last I checked!" Erik voice wavered into a more teasing tone as he lowered his head, his lips barely brushing against her forehead every time he spoke.

He felt her body shake as she started laughing back, and found himself staring into her eyes sparkling with laughter.

"Yes, I finished with the props." She started laughing again, and Erik felt a mild thought of how cute she looked when she was laughing flutter across his mind. "But I have even better news!" She waited for him to guess, but when he refused and decided to let her tell him, she rolled her eyes.

"I got a job!" she cried, throwing her arms around Erik's neck again. His entire body went stiff, and not just from her flung body weight.

"A job?" he rasped out, barely forming his mind around the concept. Jessica nodded and continued.

"Monsieur Martin came up to me and asked me to be his secretary. You remember his old one? Well, I couldn't catch exactly _why _she left but either way, she's gone and I get to be his new secretary! The hours are as long as anyone else's and he told me that he would pay me overtime if he needed to! Isn't it great?" She finally took a moment to look at Erik, and, noticing his less than enthusiastic face, asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied, then plastered a grin on his face. "I'm excited for you. Truly, I am. I'll help you get a bank account settled with your first pay check. You need to understand money; after all, I can't go shopping with you _all _the time."

…

The news of a job presented different emotions, in two decidedly different people.

For Jessica, she felt elated beyond all measure and just a tad bit smug. She still felt that she owed Erik; after all, he had taken her in those months ago, had given her a place to live and food to eat, and had helped her ease into the life of the Opera Populaire. Without him, Jessica was sure that she wouldn't even have a job, or even know where to look for one. Though normally these ideas did not cause one to feel "smug", Jessica had some reasoning to her madness: she would pay back the Opera Ghost for what he had done for her.

Yes, she knew that Erik would hate the very idea of it. She knew that he wouldn't want her to owe him anything. The last time she had brought up the subject had been a few weeks ago, and he had nearly yelled at her for an hour, insisting again and again that she owed him nothing.

Still, she reasoned, she couldn't go around with this guilty feeling in her. She knew that Erik had done more for her than he realized, and though she couldn't give him _exactly_ what she rightfully owed him, her money could serve as a substitute. She wouldn't give him her entire paycheck, that would make him suspicious, but if she saved up, little by little, she would eventually have enough money to ease her conscience.

As for Erik, he felt defeated and a slow, throbbing pain in his heart when Jessica mentioned a job. How could she? How could she leave him? True, he would see her as much as he saw her on any other day, but a job would… complicate things. After all, Erik would often pull Jessica away from whatever was going on above ground and take her back home for a singing lesson, or a dancing lesson, or for any other reason.

Because of him, and all the others who spoke to Jessica during her stay here (mostly him), she could speak passably, if not overly well, in French. It was because of him that she could sing, dance, read, and cook. It was because of him that she knew how to embroider, sew her own clothes, and recognize the differences between Michelangelo and Da Vinci. And Monsieur Martin thought he would be helping her by giving her a job?

Not bloody likely. A certain Opera Ghost had a lot to say about this decision, and one could easily infer that what would be said wouldn't be pretty. It was _he _who ran the Opera Populaire; not _Monsieur Martin_! Who kept the ballet rats in line when Madame Giry wasn't paying attention? Who kept the chorus members singing their best, if only out of fear? Who knew _exactly _what was art, and what was trash from the gutter? Him, Him, HIM!

And they thought that he would just take this lying down? That he would just let Jessica work herself to death, smiling though she was—!

Smiling?

Erik turned back and looked at his ward; they had long ago left his piano bench and had worked their way to the living room. Yes, she was truly smiling. Her eyes were softly unfocused; a lock of hair was tucked behind her ear. He watched, almost dumbfounded, when she caught herself, laughed gently at her dreamy state, and walked over to a bookshelf. Taking out the thickest book in Erik's collection, she made her way over to the Phantom.

"Read to me," she commanded, then, as if realizing what she had just said, added a small, "Please." Erik just stared; Jessica continued. "You have an… _amazing _voice, and I'm nervous about tomorrow."

"You'll be fine," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You worry about too much. For as long as I've known you, you've worried over everything. Your French, your friends, your family. You worry more than Antoinette!"

…

Three hours later, Erik had Jessica snuggled up under his arm, deeply engrossed in The Complete History of Babylonian Textile Workers.

* * *

**Special Thanks to: Phantom's-only-Christine, WaveRunner22, Keyra93, LunaBelle13, and batgirlblond for their lovely reviews. They give me giggly butterflies, and cause Erik to think that I'm insane.**

**Author's Commentary: Yeah... I'm pretty sure that I fluffed up this chappie. I mean, even _I _wouldn't be interested in The Complete History of Babylonian Textile Workers, even if Erik was the one reading it. C'st la vie. I'm going on vacation for awhile, and I just wanted to get this chapter out that before I got to work on my LONGER AND MORE DRAMA FILLED CHAPTER for you guys. So if I'm not posting for awhile, you know why.**

**C'mon, you know you're only human. You know you like to have your ideas aired. So why not leave a review? All reviews are welcome! Tell me what you thought, your favorite part, what you want to happen. Remember, Erik bakes cookies for all reviewers! (The sad news is, he EATS nearly every single batch... I think that man may have a serious addiction.)**


	10. Chapter 10

Jessica had never understood the basics of chess. In her opinion, if you wanted to "attack" the other team, make sure they were weaker, or at least a heck of a whole lot smaller than your team. And then there were all those horrible rules, where you _can _move this way, but you _can't _move that way, and, oh, by the way, checkmate. But she had heard it said somewhere than the cosmos played chess with all the humans and events on earth, and the reason nothing made sense to her was because her brain was too tiny to comprehend anything.

That was how she felt after every time Erik insisted they have a singing lesson. Today was no exception.

"I just don't get it!" she cried, thrusting the sheet music back at him. "What the hell do you mean, vibroso? I don't speak Italian, Erik! I barely speak French!"

Erik corrected, his annoyance leaking into his voice, "It's not 'vibroso', it's _vibrato_, and it just means how your voice… quivers, I suppose is the word, when you sing." He settled the music back on the piano and settled down to play again.

"I thought quivering was a bad thing," Jessica replied sullenly, almost wishing that Monsieur Martin had asked her to stay late and help him organize his office. That man worked in a messier office than Erik did!

"Quivering is a bad thing when it shows a weak voice. I do suppose I used the wrong word there. My mistake. Now, from the beginning, please." Jessica refused to sing, even after Erik had given her what she called his "death glare". Sighing, Erik closed the lid on the grand and looked at her through the corner of his eyes.

"I don't know why you're acting this way; I was only trying to help you."

"Help me do what?" Jessica wanted to know. "When will singing ever help me? I need to know math and science and stuff. Not how to sing!"

"I told you, it's _proper _to know how to sing! And… and don't use that attitude with me, young lady!"

"Who are _you_, my father?" Jessica shot back, and Erik gagged on his words. Knowing she had him, a smug smile spread across her face as she flounced out of the room. Erik watched her, his anger sizzling dangerously.

"Go to your room!" he shouted, knowing that he had lost this round. "And don't leave until morning!"

…

"Bonjour. I am looking for a Monsieur Martin? Are you his assistant?"

Jessica looked up from her ledger at the voice addressing her. It belonged to a tall man with curly brown hair falling into his eyes. His lively brown eyes sparkled when they viewed her over his aquiline nose. Jessica caught herself staring and subconsciously blushed. The man widened his smile.

"I am she," Jessica replied, keeping her head lowered as if she were focusing on her work. "I believe Monsieur Martin is out right now. I'm not sure how long he will be gone. Perhaps you should return tomorrow? If the business is pressing, I'm sure I can schedule an appointment." She raised the tip of her pen in apprehension of taking down his name.

"Oh, that's alright," the man replied, seating himself across from Jessica. "I don't mind waiting. Especially when a comely creature such as yourself is keeping me company." His dark eyes danced when he saw her blush even redder than before, a smile flickering at the edge of her lips.

He was just about to introduce himself when the gaslights blew out and a thick, heavy hand clasped over his mouth.

…

Jessica fumbled in her desk drawer, groping helplessly for some matches. Stationary, ink, pens, and—ah ha!—the matches hit her hand. She clumsily lit one and used the faint light to lead her to the lamps, which she promptly illuminated.

Turning back to her guest, she apologized. "I'm terribly sorry about that, monsieur. It must have been the wind, though I didn't think today was so blustery. If I had known, I would have kept the windows shut." The man looked as white as a sheet, his eyes pointed at Jessica but not truly seeing her. Hearing her finish her piece, recognition of reality flickered in his eyes, and he sat up a little straighter.

"Yes… the wind…" His words trailed off as if he were convincing himself of this.

"Monsieur, are you alright?" Jessica asked, truly concerned. "We were only in darkness for a little while. You're face is still very pale."

"Oh! Oh, it's… it's nothing. I was—I mean, I'm not feeling all that well. That is… I'm suffering from a slight cold." Pacified, Jessica smiled.

"You look as if you've seen the Opera Ghost."

"Opera Ghost?"

"Oh, forgive me. It's a legend around here. Apparently, there's a malevolent ghost living here at the opera who causes terribly accidents whenever his whims aren't obeyed. He normally communicates by writing letters, but a few people have actually claimed to see him. All the little ballerinas tell stories about him, so I merely wondered if you had seen him yourself?" She took on a mirthful tone as she told this story, trying to prove to the man that the Opera Ghost was little more than a story.

"_You will stay away from her, if you know what's good for you."_

The man shook his head. No, he had just imagined the voice. He had just imagined that a hand had clamped over his mouth, stopping him from calling out for help. He had only dreamed that the deep, threatening voice had uttered those words in his ear.

Laughing past his irrational fear, he replied, "No, I didn't see the ghost, though I'm sure that would make a wonderful story. I'm León Moreau. I'm Monsieur Martin's nephew."

Jessica smiled at him, remembering how earlier that morning, Monsieur Martin had insisted that his "very handsome" nephew would be coming to see him. He had all but flat out stated that Jessica and his nephew would make the perfect couple! _What a crazy man, _Jessica thought, though she was grateful that Monsieur Martin had taken such a liking to her.

"Yes," she continued, "I remember him mentioning that you would arrive today, Monsieur Moreau. I'm his assistant, Jessica Arden."

"I see you've meet Mademoiselle Arden!" Monsieur Martin bounced into the room, a jovial smile sewn onto his face. He placed a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Didn't I tell you he got his good looks from my side of the family?" Monsieur Moreau playfully shrugged out of his uncle's grasp.

"My mother's side, Uncle. I should hope that I never inherit _you _share of the family genes." His uncle gave his ear a playful tug before turning back to Jessica.

"Well, in light of this wonderful visit, I propose you take the rest of the day off, mademoiselle. Would you do me the honor of joining us for a quick trip to a café? I'm sure my nephew would enjoy the company." When Jessica nodded her consent, her employer left the room to "go round up that Jacques-Louis"; as soon as the door clicked shut, Jessica started giggling.

"What's so funny?" Monsieur Moreau asked, taking her arm and leading her into the opera's foyer. Ghost or no ghost, he wanted to know more about this young woman.

"It's just Monsieur Martin," Jessica managed to get out between her giggles. "He's never… never this happy. He's always so serious… it was as if he were a different man back there." She looked up at her companion. "You must really be his favorite nephew if he acts like this around you."

"I appreciate you saying so, mademoiselle." Yes, he would definitely get to know this woman, and the imaginary Opera Ghost would do nothing to stop him.

…

Erik had to stop him.

He had no problem with Jessica getting the day off, as long as it was spent with _him_, instead of Monsieur Martin's stranger of a nephew. He convinced himself that this possessiveness was only due to the fact that Jessica had so much to learn still. Her knowledge consisted of something called "volleyball", whatever that was, socializing with young men (Erik felt his chest tighten with this thought), and someone of the aristocracy named Lady "Gaga", who, in Erik's opinion, had to be the most scandalous woman to grace the face of the earth. With only this to go by, Jessica needed all the help she could get! Why on earth was she going to a café when she knew as well as Erik that she was woefully under-prepared for Parisian society?

And that Monsieur Moreau? What of him? Erik didn't know. He had warned the man to stay away from his Jessica, but did he listen? No. Instead, he took it upon himself to _personally escort _her out of the building! Did he ever realize that Erik was watching? Did it ever cross his mind that the Opera Ghost wasn't just a fable? Of course not. And that would be the man's undoing. Eventually. Once Erik finished talking to Jessica and impressing upon her that her studies came before jobs, friends, and men.

Especially men like Monsieur León Moreau.

…

"Who is he?" Erik asked, not bothering to hide his contempt. Jessica looked up startled from her dinner; these were the first words Erik had spoken to her that night.

"Who?"

"Monsieur Moreau."

"Oh." Jessica fiddled with her food. _He's only the most handsome, witty, charming man in the world! _"He's Monsieur Martin's nephew."

"And…?"

"And what?" _He makes me smile and laugh and feel as if I'm the only person who matters in the room! _"There's not much else to say." She turned back to her food, eating with fresh vigor.

Erik immediately became suspicious.

"So there's nothing between you two?" he asked nonchalantly, taking a sip from his wine. Jessica looked up, startled.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"When I saw you two walking together, I assumed that there was something there, that's all. You never answered my question though: is there anything between you two?"

"What? Oh, no. Nothing." _Only I think I'm in love! I've never felt so giddy in all my life, and I can't wait to see him again tomorrow! I've never felt like this so fast, or so forcefully! Oh, Erik! I think I love him!_

"Really? That's good. In that case, I forbid you from seeing him ever again."


	11. Chapter 11

The grandfather clock in the corner produced the only sound in the thick, suppressing silence.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Ti—!_

"Wha—what?" Jessica managed to gasp, nearly choking on her own air. "But—but—but why? Erik, this is… unreasonable! You can't just forbid me from seeing someone! It's not fair!"

Erik swallowed. "Life isn't fair." He continued eating at a painfully slow rate and Jessica strove not to explode.

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

"But that doesn't mean that you can just… _forbid _me from seeing someone! You can't do that! It's not like Monsieur Moreau is a bad man!"

Erik looked up from his plate, fixing her with a dark, withering stare. "Ah, but you see, I already have. And you _will _listen to me, Jessica." He turned back to his food. She wouldn't dare disobey him. Not after he had saved her life, and helped her create a new one here in Paris. Erik knew very little about society, but he knew that he had, without a doubt, won this round.

"No."

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

Surely, he had misheard her. Surely, she had not disobeyed his direct order. Yes, it truly must have been a mistake; after all, she could not have—would not have—! He blinked, furiously; the look on her face told a very different story than the one in his mind.

"You can't control my life, Erik." Her voice cracked a little with the intensity behind it. She was not used to such anger, such power behind her words. For a moment, she backed off, ever so slightly, afraid of what she could be capable of. Then the fire returned to her eyes, and she stared at him so forcefully, Erik's guard immediately rose. It was a defense he had established years ago: if anyone opposed him, he would rise like a cobra to the challenge. At the moment, he was beginning to stand his eyes deadly black, his words no more than a hiss between his teeth.

"Excuse me?" he spat, the consonants coming out sharp and ugly. By now he was standing to his full height, staring down at his ward. Jessica seemed to shrink back once again; she hadn't remembered him being so tall. _'Powerful… and dangerous,' _ran through her mind against her will. Stubbornness flared up inside her, and she stood defiantly, desperately trying to quell the nerves slithering around in her stomach. However, though she tried as hard as she could, she could not bring herself to speak. Not yet.

Erik cocked a mocking eyebrow at Jessica's action, sniffing disdainfully. Did she think she could beat him? Did she think that she could get away with being a little ingrate? She owed him her life. She owed him everything she had now: food, a place to sleep, clothes, an education (albeit a poor one, thanks to her inability to pay more than ten seconds attention to his lectures). She had no _right _to disobey him! His word was law!

"Sit down, Jessica." His hands tensed, waiting for her response.

She snarled, "Make me."

Wrong move.

Erik flung his empty wine glass on the floor, crunching the shattered glass as he pounced. He grabbed both her hands in his, pulling her forward and knocking her chair helter-skelter. She fought back harder than he had expected, kicking and pushing to a degree of strength he found surprising in a girl so much smaller than he. His shin slammed painfully into the table, and Jessica momentarily gained the upper hand. She grabbed the side of his mask, and…

… cringed in pain as Erik turned and sank his teeth into her hand.

"You—you bit me!" she yelped, letting go of the Phantom to gently nurse her smarting hand. Erik took complete advantage of the situation, pushing her over the broken glass and into a wall, and then pinning her body down with his. Jessica's hands rose instinctively to protect herself; Erik caught them and immobilized them above her head. Their breath came in gasps after their tussle, their bodies brushing each other as their chests rose and fell, almost in unison. Jessica's eyes dimmed as the anger melted from her body; she wasn't used to holding on to such an emotion for so long. Erik, however, was quite accustomed to it. His eyes blazed black fire as he leaned over her, a black shadow, so close his nose almost touched hers.

"Don't… touch… my… mask!" Jessica involuntarily shivered at Erik's voice, more frightened of _it _than of him. The words grated against her skull like nails on a chalkboard and reminded her of wet, slimy scales running up and down someone's back. She shuddered again. Erik's eyes still held their frightful appearance, and Jessica felt her spirit finally break. She couldn't win this time; Erik would have to have his way. She looked down, ashamed that she would have to come to this.

Swallowing her pride, she whispered, "Yes, monsieur." Erik, however, was not through with her.

"And you will obey me? You will no longer have any contact with Monsieur Moreau?" Jessica's lips trembled and tears sprang into her eyes at the thought of what she was about to do. The words were barely audible:

"Yes, monsieur."

The tension immediately relaxed from Erik's shoulders and he slowly slid his hands down Jessica's arms, until they rest peacefully on her shoulders. She flopped her arms down, still refusing to look up into his eyes, even as his forehead rested hesitantly on hers.

She had finally given in. Finally! And now the demons in Erik's heart were finally at peace. He felt no more anger, or frustration, or anything. A strange sort of contentment settled on him and he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against the edged of her jaw in small, circular motions.

"Did I hurt you?" he murmured. Jessica smelt the wine from dinner as his breath hit her in a cloud. Still, she could not meet his eyes.

"No, monsieur."

Erik felt a sharp ache where in his chest. Why was she being so formal with him? Had he…? Had he truly hurt her? His thumb migrated up to her cheek and started a pattern of soft, feathery movement.

"Where does it hurt?" His voice was silky, nothing like the demonic voice he had used earlier. Jessica shook her head; she didn't trust her voice. She had just… why would he ask her to… she was forbidden… who did he think he was…? Snatches of phrases ghosted through her mind, settling nowhere. She didn't know why she had reacted so violently; after all, she had only just met Monsieur León Moreau. The ache in her heart throbbed painfully at what she had just done. _'Oh, Erik. Why? Why did you say such a thing? What good can come of keeping me isolated from him? It could have been anything, from a crush to really, real love. But why? That's what I don't understand. Why?'_

"Darling…" Erik breathed out the word before he could stop himself. Throwing caution to the wind, he tilted her head up. The tears in the corners of her eyes told him all he needed to know. "I'm so sorry about this." She refused to answer. How could she? What did he know about what he had done? He was Erik; he was egotistic and he was always right. He was a genius, and—and—and he was steadily getting closer.

"Erik…?" Jessica asked, breaking her mental vow not to speak to him. Her heart involuntarily leapt out to him; there was such pain in his eyes.

"Jessica." His voice was so soft, and he was so close, Jessica could swear that she could hear his heart beating. Oh wait—that was _her _heart drumming so frantically. Jessica felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier as Erik continued, "Jessica. I'm so… sorry. So… terribly… sorry…" His lips were centimeters away from hers; she could _feel _the heat radiating from them, and as he spoke, she thought she could feel more than heat. "But… at the same… time… I'm not… sorry… no, I'm not sorry… in the slightest."

And without another word, he kissed her.

* * *

**Special Thanks: xXAngleofMusicXx and Mew of Fire who were my only reviewers for my last chappie. These two kept me out of the brink of literary depression and helped this chapter come alive. I thank you two from the bottom of my heart. ^_^ You go beyond the cookies; Erik, it's time you bake them a cake! (*in the background* No, Erik. You're not allowed to eat a whole cake by yourself. Don't look at me like that! You'll get fat!*)**

**So... this chappie was a little different. Usually I have a general idea where each chapter will go, but this one took a totally different direction from where I had intended. I'm not even kidding here: the characters wrote themselves this time. And yes, I typed this all in one day, and that would explain why it is shorter, but my muse was on the loose! Plus, I got to see my real-life muse, and she got me inspired again. ^_^ Hopefully, updates will be longer, and faster and I see my muse more and more often!**

**Well? What did you think? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE TELL ME! While I was thankful that I got ANY reviews, I was still rather sad that I only got two. xXAngleofMusicXx and Mew of Fire are getting mentioned again because they were the ONLY TWO! Okay, author rant done, but what do you want to happen? Should I bring in Christine? What should Jessica do about León Monreau? What should she do about ERIK? All reviews get mentioned in my "Special Thanks" section!**

**Oh, and I just realized that I never thanked all those people who have me subscribed. ^_^ You guys get thanks as well! It's nice to know that it's not just me and a few others who are reading this!**


	12. Chapter 12

_She turned to him, a smile slowly spreading across her face. His hand gripped tighter around hers as she leaned in to whisper a soft, 'I love you,' in his ear. The people around them gossiped freely; he distinctly heard some old woman critique how scandalously informal they were acting. He was about to retort, when the hand in his reached up and touched the side of his face. She was there, she had heard. 'I love you,' she said fiercely, and the world started swirling around him as she kissed him. He kissed her back intensely, pressing her body tightly against his own._

That was when he woke up, nearly screaming; Jacques-Louis Martin was having nightmares.

He stumbled out of his bed, making enough noise to wake the entire neighborhood. He cast a quick glance upwards, and thanked heaven that his father was a deep sleeper. Crashing into the bathroom, he splashed some water from a pitcher on his face. The moon shone through a small window, reflecting on the mirror and illuminating Jacques-Louis' face. The droplets of water clinging to him looked like beads of sweat. His eyes were harried, and his laborious breathing fogged up the mirror over and over again.

What could this dream have meant? It wasn't the first time his nighttime visions had strayed a little fantastic. He was no stranger to romanticism, especially as he slept. But this dream was so different… so strange… so blasphemous! For in his dream, he was not with his darling, beloved Little Meg! How often had he dreamed of her? How often did he long for her kind touch? Why was it now that his dreams were straying from his beloved? Why wasn't she the woman in his vision?

Why on earth had he dreamed about kissing Mademoiselle Jessica?

…

"Meg! Meg! Please open the door!" Jessica hissed, banging hard on the oaken frame. The echoes resonated loudly in the silent corridor. Jessica had just begged whoever was listening to her pleas that Meg would not be a deep sleeper, when the door slid swiftly open. Meg stood before her, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"What?" she growled, clearly irritated the intrusion. She stilled slightly when she saw Jessica's face, pale and trembling. "What's wrong?" she asked, in a slightly less offended manner. Jessica ran inside the room, closing the door with a glance around. Meg thought it looked as if she were trying to hide from something. Or _someone_.

"Meg?" Jessica asked in a trembling voice, keeping her back turned to the ballerina. "Would you mind terribly if… that is, could I sleep here, in your room tonight? I know this is strange, and sudden, but I just can't face him—I mean, I just… I can't go home right now. I'll just stay for the night."

There was a moment's hesitation. "Alright. You'll have to take the sofa though. I've got some extra blankets somewhere around here."

"Thank you."

In moments later, Jessica had bedded down for the night, and Meg had returned to her own sleeping place. Though cramped, Jessica was thankful that Meg had allowed her to stay; her other option had been to ask Madame Giry for a room. There was, however, the option of staying underground… No! She wouldn't even think about it! Not now. Not until morning, when she would have a clear head.

"Jessica?"

"Hmm?"

Meg rolled over on her side and looked at her temporary roommate. "Who couldn't you face?"

Jessica nearly sat bolt upright on the divan. "What?"

"Before," Meg continued, "you said that you couldn't face him. Who is 'him'?"

"Oh. He's my…" Jessica struggled for the right word.

"Boyfriend?" Meg teased.

"Oh, God no!" Jessica replied, laughing a little. It felt odd to laugh, almost as if her cheeks where made of a hardened clay. "No, he's just…" _'My guardian,' _she thought, but then realized that she didn't know how to say the words in French. Her voice shrank in size as she picked the next best word.

"Erik is… he's my father." _'Sort of.'_

"Oh." There were several moments of silence, and Jessica was certain that Meg had fallen asleep. She was just about to close her own eyes when she heard Meg ask:

"Did he hurt you?"

"_Did I hurt you?" _

Jessica winced, ever so slightly. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion as she thought of how to answer the question. Very, very hesitantly—as if she were afraid that someone could see her through the oppressing dark—she raised her hand and trailed her fingertips lightly against her lips.

"Yes… and no," she replied cautiously, quickly lowering her hand back to her side. "I don't want to talk about it; I'm tired. Goodnight, Meg."

"Goodnight."

…

Erik couldn't eat. _She _had gotten him into the habit of eating breakfast and dinner, and now that… last night had happened... his mind couldn't stay still.

_She had such soft lips. It was so strange, kissing a woman. It wasn't as dramatic as all the operas had made it out to be. He could not hear music swirling around them, pulling them closer together; all he could hear was his blood pounding through his ears. His eyes shut, he didn't know what her reaction was until he felt her gasp, and then the kiss moved onto a whole other level._

Erik slammed down his fork. It was impossible. Admitting defeat, he went to dispose of his picked at food.

_She fit nicely against him, his hand wrapped around her waist, her hands wrapped loosely around his neck. She was just as warm as he remembered, that night when she had crawled into bed with him. Now was better than that night; he could feel more than body heat. Taking his free hand, he knotted his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer into him. Her head tilted upwards, and he felt a soft growl escape his throat._

_What the hell was he doing?_

"_Damn!" he cursed, instantly flinging her away. What had he done? Jessica hit the wall, staring up at Erik through half-open eyes. Her lips were a deep, cherry color, and he had to fight himself not to kiss her again. He felt his hands shake with temptation, and it didn't help that Jessica held a look of mixed confusion and disappointment in her eyes. At least, Erik thought it was disappointment; when she stood and slapped him violently across the face, he knew it was anything but._

That was the last Erik had seen of Jessica. She had turned and ran, and Erik didn't follow. Erik slammed his dishes in the sink, shattering his plate. Why? Why on earth had he kissed her? He didn't love her; if he had loved her, he wouldn't have let her go. If he had loved her, he wouldn't have stopped kissing her. He wouldn't have let her spend a night anywhere other than her room.

He didn't love her, dammit! He didn't!

But then why did it hurt so much that she had run away?

…

Meg had insisted on walking Jessica home.

"I don't know where you live!" She cried cheerfully, though her real reason was obviously to see her friend's "father", Erik.

"Really, Meg. It's alright. I'm perfectly okay walking myself home." Jessica didn't know what to do; Meg obviously did not know Erik as well as her mother did. Erik certainly kept up the rouse of the Opera Ghost fairly well; Jessica wondered what Meg would think if she found out that Erik was really the Phantom of the Opera.

Thankfully, a certain dreamer came and tore Meg away. Jessica audibly sighed in relief when Jacques-Louis nearly dragged Meg into a corner. She knew that he wouldn't hurt her friend. After all, he was just a fanatic in love—or so he claimed. Not all that different from Erik actually.

What?

'_Where the heck did that__come from?' _Jessica asked herself. _'Erik isn't in love with… What the heck was I thinking?' _Still, she couldn't get the idea out of her mind. Daydreams were quickly formulated, rejected, and formulated again. She imagined them living together—actually living together, not like they were now—with his dark, looming frame against her small, white one. Shaking her head angrily, she burned the mental image.

What the hell was she thinking?

…

It was all León Moreau's fault. That was the only explanation Erik could come up with. Why else would she… would he... after all…? Besides, he didn't love her. Monsieur Moreau must have irked him. Yes… he had been annoyed by that man and had needed to explain to Jessica… but of course she didn't listen… she never did…

She was actually fairly cute when she didn't listen.

…

León Moreau sifted through his mail, bored beyond tears. Several letters from his friends in England, a few charities asking for money, and even a flyer for an opening for a barber shop. But nothing, not even a few scratches of the pen, from _her. _He had given her his address while he was in Paris, living with his uncle. Jacques-Louis had already gone to the opera; León couldn't fathom what he did there all day.

"Marie?" He called to the servant. _'Pretty little thing,' _he thought to himself as she curtsied before him. "If my uncle returns home before I do, tell him that I've gone out for the day. I need to see this… illustrious city before I go stark raving mad!" He allowed himself to watch the young girl curtsey again, (a stupid custom for servants in his mind—after all, one has already curtsied _once_), wondering idly what her hair looked like when it was let out of its bun.

The maid promised to do so, and León promptly marched outside into the cold of December.

…

She was not cute! Why had he thought that? She wasn't anything but a stick of a girl, trying to act much older than she was! She was spoiled, arrogant, and annoying! He must be going mad, thinking that a girl like her could be "cute"!

He was going mad without her.

No he wasn't. Yes he was. Wasn't! Was! Wasn't! Was!

Damn her!

…

Jessica wandered aimlessly through the many venders' carts, barely taking note of any of their wares. Fingering the dress she had borrowed from Meg, she glided from one side of the road to the next. She knew she had to face Erik; that was inevitable. But she couldn't bring herself to do so. Besides, a day out of the opera would do her well.

A small, curious pair of binoculars caught her eye, and she quickly picked them up by an elongated handle and examined them. Smaller than an average pair of binoculars, their gold rims sparkled in the sunlight. The vender coughed, and Jessica looked up, embarrassed to be caught gawking at something. The man, however, didn't mind in the least, and when he smiled at her all his crooked, blackened teeth showed.

"Ah, mademoiselle. You have found one of my most popular wares. Yes, all the fashionable ladies want a pair of my opera glasses. Do you know, I bought them off a man claiming he was a thief! Oh, what a man! Not a man who would trifle with a beautiful mademoiselle like yourself! I was robbed paying for those glasses, but I'll sell them to you for…"

Jessica had hardly heard a word after 'opera glasses' had been said. Quickly, she shook her head, nearly dropping the glasses back on the table. The vender scowled at her, but she had already turned on her heel and was melting back into the crowd of people.

Erik. Damn him. Even when she was out shopping, even when she was trying to _forget _him, he still showed up in her life. What the heck was wrong with her? Couldn't she forget what had happened? Maybe… maybe he had had too much wine with dinner, and had started acting irrationally. Yes, that had to be it. There was no other possible explanation for his actions. Why else would he keep her away from other men, hold her, kiss her…?

Unless he loved…

… as if.

"Mademoiselle Arden?"

She turned around swiftly, and found herself face-to-face with León Moreau. The breeze lightly tossed his curls around his forehead back and forth; Jessica found it very hard to breathe all of the sudden.

"M-Monsieur Moreau!" she stuttered. León smiled when he saw her flush a deep crimson. "H-how are you? I didn't expect to… what I mean is… I didn't know you would do your shopping today. That is, I assumed you would send a servant. And besides, today is Sunday; not very many people come shopping on Sunday. That's what I like about this place. It's very quiet on my day off…" Her voice trailed off as she ended her rambling.

'_She is a very… interesting creature,' _he thought to himself, feeling like a cat with a cornered mouse. _'Perhaps she will provide my entertainment for the day.' _

"Would you care to walk with me?" he said out loud. "I was on my way to the nearest park; I've heard that even in winter, it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. That is, if you've finished your shopping…" His words lifted upwards, teasing her.

"Oh, I'm quite finished, monsieur." He took her arm, and side by side they meandered through the winding pathways.

…

"Jacques-Louis, what on earth do you want?" Meg shouted, angry that she had been pulled away from her friend. She looked about her, but Jessica was nowhere to be seen.

"I need to talk to you," he said, very monotone. Just what did his dream mean? Jessica? Meg? What on earth was going on? He pulled Meg through a hallway, and then into the studio, making sure that they were alone.

"About what?" Meg was furious now, and was quite liable to slap him, even though it would hardly be lady-like. Why on earth did Jacques-Louis always have to find her at the worst possible times?

Sighing, Jacques-Louis placed a hand on her arm. "Meg… do you dream about me?"

"What? No! Of course not! Why should I dream about you?"

"Because…" The pain was evident on his face; she didn't dream about him? "Because… I dream about you. And I want to know how much longer I'll have to wait before you realize your feelings for me." _And I can stop dreaming about other women out of desperation._

Meg rolled her eyes. "I don't feel anything for you, you idiot! Now quit following me and leave me alone!" In a huff, she stomped on his foot, causing him to dance with pain. Jacques-Louis watched her flounce out of the room, certain that several of his bones had been bruised, if not broken.

But he still couldn't let her go. No, she was his and his alone. His little Meg. She claimed she didn't feeling anything for him—surely she was just a girl! But he would be waiting for her; after all, he knew all about love, being two years older than her. She was just a novice… and he loved her in all her innocence.

…

Where the hell could she be? She had been gone all day! Erik paced back and forth and back again, wondering and worrying and wondering some more. The house was so quiet, so empty without her.

Just as it was before they had met.

Or was it? It was a different sort of silence; it clung to Erik, hot and thick, twisting around his limbs and rooting him to the spot. It sent poison coursing through his blood until he felt he would go mad unless he saw her again, even if it was from afar.

He was just imagining things. After all, she was just Jessica. Stubborn, annoying, stupid Jessica. Why on earth would he want to see her again? What value did she add to a conversation, an idea, anything? What did she have to offer him that made him believe he needed to see her.

Nothing.

And everything.

…

"Well, mademoiselle, it certainly was a pleasant day. Shall I escort you back to your home?" León pointed towards the street, where horse drawn cabs were waiting patiently for their customers.

"Oh, no. That's quite alright; I can just walk." Jessica replied, embarrassed that he would go to the trouble. "I'm just going back to the opera. I live… I live very close to there."

"It's no trouble at all," he replied, already hailing the drivers. "I have to see my uncle anyways; I have some business to discuss with him." The cab came around at a leisurely pace, and the two climbed inside in a jumble.

Jessica rubbed the top of her head. "I'm so sorry. I hit my head on the top of the cab. I hope I didn't fall on you too hard."

"No no; I'm alright. A little kick in the shins isn't going to kill me."

They smiled at each other, and as soon as the ride was over, León paid the driver, insisting that Jessica need not pay him back.

"Shall I call on you tomorrow?" he asked, hopefully. She had proved to be a very amusing young lady.

Jessica hesitated in her answer. "No… but I do wish to see you. Could you meet me…?" Where could they go? Where wouldn't attract Erik's suspicion? "Meet me in that little café your uncle took us to. Do you remember? The first day you were here?"

"I remember. I'll see you there at 4:00 o'clock." He bent down and kissed the top of her hand. "It was a pleasure spending the day with you."

Five minutes later, Jessica was standing there, holding her kissed hand delicately and looking wistfully at the retreating back of León Moreau.

…

Joseph Bouquet had been branded as a trouble-maker. He walked with a swagger—his hips thrust out a good four inches before the rest of his body—though whether from drinking six days a week or from his high opinion of himself no one ever knew. A squashed nose took over half his face—he had broken it some years back after a bar fight with another drunkard. Dark, beady eyes were framed by bushy eyebrows. His hands were thick and heavy, more like bear paws than human appendages, and were used for quickly shifting scenes during the operas, cradling bottles of wine, and holding pretty girls. Mothers hated him; their daughters loved him, drawn to his dark, "bad-boy" nature.

But only Meg Giry had him.

The corner was dark and far away from the studios; no one would think to look for Meg there, especially not in the arms of one Monsieur Joseph Bouquet.

"Meg?"

With a gasp, she pushed Joseph away, turning to face the voice. Jessica. Oh, thank the Lord it was just Jessica!

"Meg… what are you doing?"

"Oh! Oh, uh, Jessica!" Meg stumbled for an instant. "I want you to meet my… well, I guess you probably already know Monsieur Bouquet." At the mention of his name, he looked up, nodded once, and then reached down and took a long slug out of a bottle.

"Yes, I know Monsieur Bouquet." He had been one of the few people Erik had warned her never to talk to, even in French. "Erm… was I… interrupting something?"

"Oh, well, no. Not really." Meg looked back at Joseph, who was still nursing his bottle. "In fact, I think I had better get back… my mother would be wondering…"

"Yes, of course." Jessica's mind was reeling. "Erm… I take it that 'Stalker-Louis Martin' doesn't know about…" She motioned between Meg and Monsieur Bouquet. "…you two?"

Meg shook her head. "No. And don't tell him or anyone else for that matter. If my mother found out…"

"I understand." Jessica turned and left them alone. A feeling of dread formed quickly in her stomach, and she was tempted to run back to Meg again.

Now, she needed to go home, and face _him_.

…

The door was right in front of her; it probably wasn't even locked! Did Erik even bother to lock his doors? Probably not, Jessica reasoned. Who would find the secret passages anyways? And who would pass all the traps that Erik had so meticulously laid out? He had told her how to avoid them all, but anyone else? They hadn't a chance at surviving.

So the door was open, not two feet from her face. It should have been easy; just reach out and open it. She had done so a million times before. It was just a door! All that was behind it was a room! No problem!

Why oh why couldn't she move her arm in compliance with her thoughts?

Squinting her eyes shut, she willed her arm forward, and, miraculously, she reached the doorknob. She flung the door open and dashed inside, knowing that if she hesitated, she would only run away again. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly, hearing the door slam. Maybe Erik wasn't home right now! She opened her eyes cautiously, and was engulfed by a very angry Phantom.

"Don't you _dare _do that ever again!" Erik cried, nearly tackling Jessica. They both ended up on their knees, Jessica pressed deeply against Erik's chest.

"I swear to God, Jessica, if you ever do that to me again, I'll—I'll—!" His words came out broken as he fought not to lose any more of his sanity. "Don't _ever _do that again! Do you understand me? Ever!"

"Erik…" Jessica gasped. "I… can't… breathe…"

Erik loosened his hold ever-so-slightly, not willing to fully let go of her. She was his, and he was not going to let her go this time!

"Erik," Jessica began again, finally getting some oxygen. "I was only gone for a day." She refused to even mention what had happened the night before. _'I'll let him bring it up. After all, it was all his fault.' _

"Don't talk," Erik commanded. He started rocking back and forth, tighten his hold on her. "Just… don't talk, Jessica."

In the ten minutes of silence that followed, Jessica repeatedly tried to free herself of Erik's grasp, and he intentionally held her closer and closer. His breath came ragged and fast in her ear, and finally evened out to a steadier tempo. Her head rested on his collarbone and moved whenever he took a breath.

"You need a bath."

Jessica looked up, startled. Erik looked at her seriously, adding, "You smell terrible." Instantly, the tentative mood had been shattered.

"I've been away all day. I was going to take one last night, but thanks to _someone _we both know, that didn't happen." Jessica rolled her eyes, pushing herself to a standing position. Her legs screamed in pain as the blood started rushing towards them again. She stumbled away in a huff, feeling Erik's eyes on her back the entire time.

* * *

**Special Thanks: Keyra93, batgirlblond, EriksStalker, Erik's Phantomess, Shke Behet, Mew of Fire, Quill of Thoughts, Malanrea, Eponine Javert, Eccentric Storyteller, and an accountless person named Pegs. For all those who reviewed, this longer chapter was written with you in mind. You all really helped make my day, this chappie, and several more plot twists that I cannot reveal at the moment. Also, if you apologized in your review, I'm making you take that apology back; after all, we all have real lives, and I totally understand. Don't worry, you're forgiven, etc. etc. etc.**

**Also: Erik has decided to move on to other forms of dessert. Anyone up for parfait? I'll try and make sure he doesn't eat all of it (I think I finally got him off his chocolate addiction!)**

**Thanks as well to all those reading this or who have me on story alert. I guess that means that I'm doing SOMETHING right...**

**To all my readers: I will try an update ASAP, but if it takes awhile, it's because there are some health problems in my family right now. I haven't forgotten you, don't worry!**

**Well? What did you think? What do you want to happen next? Are my characters turning into Mary Sues? Is Erik being too romantic? Are you searching for some upcoming Leroux? WHAT KIND OF PARFAIT SHOULD ERIK MAKE?**

**Review and tell me! I love to hear all your opinions, comments, critiques, and random ideas.**


	13. Chapter 13

The water was icy cold—Jessica hadn't bothered to wait long enough for it to get properly warm. She let out an involuntary squeak as she sunk under the frozen water, her bath routine suddenly rushed by the advancing cold in her limbs.

Erik was an idiot, she decided, furious for no reason whatsoever. He had not brought up the kiss, and for that she was eternally grateful, but he… well, he had just been Erik. First insisting that she never leave him again, then all but pushing her away from him.

"What the hell, Erik?" Jessica murmured under her breath, quickly stepping out of the water to reach for her towel. "What the hell?"

…

Erik could have died.

"You need a bath?" he hissed into the empty air. "What on earth…? Oh, God, Erik! You couldn't think of anything else to say? But no, no you had to tell her to bathe… you idiot!" He paced back and forth in his room, glancing at his pocket watch every ten seconds or so. Why the hell couldn't Jessica move faster?

Angrily, he sat at his organ, his fingers mechanically playing some Mozart, his heart not in the music at all. The notes were his drug; after several minutes of playing, he finally felt his conscious mind slip away. All that mattered now was the music. He could forget about Jessica; he could forget about the day; he only knew what the music told him.

The music said to keep playing.

…

They weren't talking to each other. It had been a week since Jessica had "run away", and she and Erik still had yet to say more than three words to the other.

The silence was cold and oppressing; Jessica shivered. Erik looked at her sharply and, after she shook her head at him, nodded that she should continue sewing.

He hadn't let her out of the house for the entire week, and Jessica was about to explode.

"Talk to me," Erik said after nearly an hour of silence. Jessica looked up in surprise, but refused to answer. Erik slammed his book shut, knitting his eyebrows together as if he were in pain.

"Damn it, Jessica!" he moaned. "You've been ignoring me for the past week. Now say something! For the love of God, say anything!"

"Like what?" she replied coldly, returning back to her stitching. God, she hated this; sewing was the only thing she had left to do, besides read a book. What she wouldn't give for a computer, or a Wii or _something_!

"Comment on the weather. Talk about your job. Say something!" By this time, Erik's eyes were burning; Jessica had seen that look all too often the last week. She looked down at her lap, barely keeping the venom out of her voice.

"I've been down here for the past week. I don't know what the weather is like, nor what my job entails. In fact, I've probably lost it by now." She knew she was goading him; she had seen him write the note explaining that, as she was very ill, she would need to take a leave from her job for a short period of time.

Erik thought of everything, didn't he?

"Don't talk like that!" he exclaimed. "You could have left any time you wanted, you know that!"

Jessica finally lost her temper. "For what? You would have followed me wherever I went! Or worse, you would have dragged me back here yourself." They were both standing now, facing each other down. "Why do you keep doing this, Erik?"

"Keep doing this?" Erik roared. "I'm not doing anything!"

"Yes you are! You're… God, I can't even explain it to you! You're so… controlling and closed-minded that you wouldn't even understand!" Jessica sat back down and cradled her head in her hands. "Never mind. Just forget I said anything." She was so tired of fighting him. The past week had been terrible; they'd been at each other's throats every day, until about three days ago, when they instinctively stopped talking to each other. The silence that had held sway was similar to that of the few precious moment before an unsuspecting soldier steps on a land mine.

Jessica had a feeling that the mine had just exploded.

Erik had grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her roughly to her feet. "I wouldn't understand?" he hissed, his fingers digging into her skin. Jessica's eyes flew open at the pain, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was hurting her. His expression dared her to answer; his voice ordered her to.

"You… are… a… bastard!" Jessica spat out at him, finally letting her rage take over. "You're a controlling bastard! Just because I don't hang on your arm for twenty-four hours a day, you think I need to be in your control! You can't control me, Erik! I'm a human being; I don't belong to you, or anyone else for that matter! I'm not yours! Just get over it and let… me... go!" She threw a well-aimed kick at his shin, but he dodged it nimbly and held her all the tighter.

She thought that she wasn't his? She thought that she didn't _belong _to him? He, who gave her a new life? He, who gave her everything her heart desired? She thought she was her own persona, free from Erik's reign and rule? No one in the entire Populaire could boast that feat; and Erik would be damned before someone as bratty as Jessica were to do so.

His kiss was rough and controlling; it craved dominance. Jessica hadn't expected as such, and was woefully underprepared as to how to react. She pushed against him hard, but he was much stronger than she was, and he was squeezing her so tightly that she was running out of air. She felt her legs wobble, then buckle, but still Erik did not let go. He held her upright solely with his strength, and only after Jessica saw stars in front of her eyes did he let her take a gasp of air.

She nearly collapsed on his chest, sucking in as much air as her lungs could hold. Erik looked a little winded too, but nowhere near as bad as Jessica. She felt as if her stomach had decided to crawl its way into her throat, and now that it was there, it had decided to stay. Erik sat them both down on the couch, curling himself around his ward.

"I can be kind…" he whispered, so quietly that at first Jessica was certain she had imagined it. "I can be kind… and gentle…" His lips were against her forehead, brushing her lightly, almost like snowflakes. His fingers started entwining around her hair and his arms supported her as she coughed sporadically. "I can be attentive… I can be anything and everything you would ask for…" He started kissing her again, not like his other kiss, but light and gentle, barely touching her skin.

"Don't fight me, Jessica. We both know who will win if you do." His lips met hers in a soft, persuasive way; Jessica didn't have the strength to resist, though she wanted to. _'Damn him,' _she thought. _'Damn everything about him. Damn his strength, damn the fact that he's controlling… and damn me for liking it!'_

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**Special Thanks to: Eccentric Storyteller, EntirelyInsane, Keyra93, EriksStalker, Musicalroza999, ., Quill of Thoughts, Erik's Phantomess, Pegs, and Gypsy Queen. Your comments really helped me actually write this chapter, even with all of my real life going on. Your words mean so much to me, not to mention my muses.**

**So... yeah. Long time no write, real life getting crazy... I don't know what to say. I'm pretty sure that 13 is NOT my lucky number, because this 'un didn't want to come out and face the literary world. C'st la vie. I'm trying to see if I can write some brilliance for all y'all for Christmas (or if you're like Erik and don't celebrate Christmas, then for the Holiday Season).**

**It's been ages since I've heard from everyone. Can you find time in your lives to give a humble writer the time of day? Of if not the time of day, then at least your thoughts on this chapter? I'm especially looking for plot development-I've hit far too many snags already. Oh, and Erik has decided to go back to baking cookies. We had an unfortunate... accident in the kitchen. Let's just say that spatulas and welders don't go well together...**


	14. Chapter 14

It didn't take Meg long to realize that she had made a horrible, awful mistake.

She raised herself halfway up from the bed, cradling her head in her hands. What an awful party! The only good thing had been that Joseph had been there, letting her nurse her way through the night with his multiple bottles of wine. The headache she had now proved that she had drunken far too much, but at the time, she didn't care. She and Joseph had snuck away after awhile… but where to was anyone's guess. Her memory blurred together multiple images in a whirling torrent; Meg felt sick just thinking about it.

Looking around, she saw that she had made it back to her room in the Populaire. She sighed, relieved, and wondered if she could fake a migraine in order to deal with this hangover. Her mother would kill her if she found out how hard Meg liked to party.

Yes, Meg had it all planned out; that is, until she noticed her clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed, and a certain Joseph Bouquet sleeping soundly next to her.

…

Monsieur Martin was overjoyed to see Jessica that morning.

"My office nearly fell apart without your eye for order!" he exclaimed. Then, as if realizing how uncharacteristically happy he was, he immediately coughed and lowered the timbre of his voice. "I'm pleased to see that you are feeling better, Mademoiselle. My nephew will also be pleased to hear of it, I'm sure." Jessica nodded, her head up in the clouds. She promptly sat down at her desk and began filing the mountain of papers that had grown on her desk. Monsieur Martin turned his attention back to his own work.

Jessica worked automatically, thinking. _'Why did I let him kiss me?'_ she mused, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. _'Why do I always like it when he does. I know I don't have feelings for him… but then why do I always want him to touch me?' _She shook her head, focusing on her filing instead of on her personal life.

'_Erik is a very good kisser.'_

Jessica shot up so suddenly, Monsieur Martin looked up from his work to make sure she hadn't hurt herself. Seeing that she was still in one piece, he turned his attention away from the girl

Where the hell had _that _come from? Jessica's mind reeled; did she really think that Erik was a good kisser? Well, alright, he was, but that didn't excuse her thoughts. Not that she was an expert on kissing anyways, but still…

And where the hell did he learn to kiss like that in the first place? Wasn't he a deranged twenty-two-year-old guy living underground, hiding half his face with a mask? Where would he learn to kiss a girl like that anyway? Jessica highly doubted that she was the first girl he had ever planted a wet one on; and since she wasn't, how many had he had before?

'_Why the hell do you care?'_ she chided herself. _'It's not like you're dating or anything.'_ Or were they? They spent a lot of time together, that was true, but that was only because they had to live together. And they did tease each other a lot, but that was surely to make living together a little more bearable. And the kissing…

The kissing. Right. Jessica couldn't find any excuse to push that little fact away; the way they made out was as if they were engaged or something. She vaguely remembered her mother telling her that way back when (i.e. _now_), dating was called courting.

'_So it short,'_ she thought spitefully, _'I'm being courted by the Opera Ghost.'_

And that was when León Moreau walked in.

…

It took all of Erik's willpower not to rush into the room and strangle and cocky Monsieur Moreau; his willpower and the fact that Monsieur Martin would have to become an unnecessary witness—one that he would have to exterminate later on.

Monsieur Moreau walked straight up to Jessica—_Jessica!—_and the foolish girl looked up! Erik's lips curled into a snarl and a razor sharp breath hissed through his clenched teeth. Hadn't he warned her—no, ordered her—to stay away from that man? He saw Moreau take Jessica's hand in his and kiss it.

That was nearly enough to drive him mad.

…

"What a pleasure it is to see that you are well again, mademoiselle," León murmured against the back of Jessica's hand. He watched, bemused, as her face flushed a deep shade of crimson. "My uncle had told me about your infirmity. I take it that it wasn't too serious?"

Jessica's head shot up at the mention of her illness, but she meekly shook her head in the negative. "I'm feeling much better," she said, praying to God that Erik wasn't anywhere near this exchange of dialogue. What would she do if he had seen her blush at León Moreau's greeting. Or worse, what would _he _do?

If there was one thing Jessica had learned in France, it was that Erik loved to exact revenge.

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**Shorter chapter, ladies and gents, but hopefully one to tide you over. I will try to write more soon, I promise. Besides, I haven't even gotten to Christine yet...**

**Special Thanks: Keyra93, Quill of Thoughts, PeggyPegs and Malanrea for plot, advice, and all around wonderful-ness in the reader department.**

**C'mon, just because I've been absent for awhile doesn't mean you need to give me the cold shoulder, right? We all know that reviews make my job easier, and you job so much more fun! So drop a line; tell me what you think!**


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